


|tales over the fire|

by littlekaracan



Category: Ranger's Apprentice - John Flanagan
Genre: 1: Will Treaty & Halt O'Carrick, 2: Halt O'Carrick & That One Dude He Almost Shot In Book 3, 3: Halt O'Carrick & Crowley Meratyn, 4: Will Treaty/Alyss Mainwaring, 5: Crowley Meratyn, 6: Halt O'Carrick, 7: The Ward Kids & Chap 3, 8: Halt O'Carrick, 9: Crowley Meratyn & Halt O'Carrick & Pritchard (mentioned), Lowercase, Multi, minor ocs to fill the plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22720570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlekaracan/pseuds/littlekaracan
Summary: all the works taken from my tumblr blog @rangersuggestions because tumblr hates me and i'm afraid it might delete me any moment.details of oneshots will be in the chapter summaries.
Comments: 41
Kudos: 44





	1. home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> halt and will are back in their cabin, and, at last, everything is okay.

will and halt ride out early and alone, after a couple quiet excuses to the king and baron. right before, will sees evanlyn nearly fall asleep standing up in her father’s embrace, and he doesn’t even feel how wide the smile on his face is. also right before, all it takes for halt to let crowley know they’re leaving for home is a blink across the room and a nod of the head toward the door. crowley nods right back and his hand twitches up ever-so-slightly; _go_ , he mouths. _rest._ halt almost smiles too, then.

so they go. some people notice, because they, too, are tired - most don’t, however, because even a tired ranger’s step is quieter than most.

they make it to redmont right before the sun starts slowly peeking over the horizon, and just soon enough for will to see how the rooftops turn red one by one, reflecting early sunlight onto his face. it feels so warm, despite the sun not shining on him directly - he doesn’t care, it seems like the rays are coming from within him.

he thinks back to skandia - how he’d see the red roofs in his dreams and they’d linger in his mind throughout the day, and how he’d thought he wouldn’t see them again. and how scared he was when the memory of araluenian forests started fading from his head, and how in the evenings he’d just drop to his knees and draw out his thoughts in the cold sand, desperate to remember, desperate to keep his home alive. hope, alive.

then, the all-consuming nothingness, and here he is again, and the roofs are red and the towers are high and he’s, he’s so unimaginably here - it makes his head spin a little bit.

tug’s trot is relaxed and rhythmic, and will can tell he shares some thoughts with his rider. most of all, however, he’s simply telling him to steady himself in the saddle with just enough warm sharpness to be true to himself. next to him, abelard moves identically, to the point you’d have to see them to know there are two horses instead of one. and seeing them is remarkably rare.

halt is also looking at the castle, will finds. his face is unreadable, but his knuckles are paling on the reins. he’s not holding the bow - it’s resting over his shoulder, untouched, unlike will’s. halt’s the one who’d been telling him to always have it ready, and will smiles.

“what if we get ambushed,” will prompts softly, lifting his bow up a little. halt eyes him like he’s not all there, makes a silent noise of utter indifference and then, even more quietly:

“you can take a couple out while i get mine.”

remembering their last trip together before this one, the day will panicked and missed both targets, he chuckles and holds the bow closer to him.

“well, i’m glad you have faith.”

halt shrugs.

“couldn’t distrust you if i wanted to,” he says, and it sounds just a little like a complaint. “horace told me about the battle, you know. figured he wasn’t lying because nobody but you could be dense enough to keep shooting while also being actively shot at.”

will goes a bit red at the ears and opens his mouth to protest, but, upon realizing halt’s tone was fond rather than scolding, he bites his tongue and turns to look somewhere else again.

they pass the sleeping town step by step, and will watches some earlier villagers rise and go for their morning walks. as always, rangers are narrowly avoided, but will manages to catch a few eyes for an odd reason - he’s smiling like a complete dolt. he doesn’t hear halt telling him to put his hood up, so halt - after rolling his eyes at least twice, presumably - reaches out and pulls it up himself, startling the boy a bit.

they move on to the woods, over the gravel and muddy paths, and will swears to himself he’s never heard a sound more beautiful than tug’s hooves on the road. by last year, he knew all the secluded pathways that lead exactly to where they want to go in redmont (that’s wherever and everywhere, all the same to them), all the alleyways (around and over and through, and through, and through), most often conveniently abandoned gates (easiest to climb over) and how to get places most people wouldn’t like him to get into (with halt’s blessing), he could look at a map and tell where they were in a matter of a second or two, and now he’ll have to do it again, and he’ll have more opportunities.

will hides his face in the high collar of his cloak and closes his eyes for a minute. he’s not done for - he’s back. he hadn’t gone tracking for the last time, or fed tug his last apple, or gone fishing for the last time, or riding, or practicing with the high trees in the woods. he still had a life here, and it had gone nowhere without him.

he emerges from the wrinkles of the cloak, nearly brimming with happiness, and he gets a headstart to ride into the clearing by the cabin. halt resumes his pace, slightly behind.

it’s just like before - what could’ve changed, really - will thinks, and turns back to look at halt with probably the widest grin he’s ever managed.

he sees halt’s reaction too - he notices his hands visibly relax, and the dark eyes grow rounder for a single moment before all goes back to the way it was before.

 _careful, lest you explode, and this all will have been for nothing,_ tug scoffs at him while he jumps down from the saddle, but will can tell that the voice in his head is smiling - or at least whatever the horse equivalent of smiling is.

halt lands softly somewhere near him, voiceless but not upset. the opposite, really, if will knows anything about him. they walk the last few steps to the cabin in companionable silence, tug and abelard following closely behind.

“what are we supposed to do now?” will asks, and it comes out a little wrong, but he’s too breathless and too tired and too happy to rephrase it, and halt understands anyway.

“we have a free day or two before the baron is back, but we should turn up at the castle at some point, let them know we’re stationed here again,” halt says, eyeing the cabin. “they’ve been handling a ranger’s work for a little while now.”

“crowley didn’t assign a replacement?” will hates how the word boils through his tongue, but halt only shrugs.

“he did, naturally, i think it was rowan he sent here,” before will can ask, he clarifies, “the one with a scar over his jaw, not the one that plays the shawm, you’ll remember. he got called back in for something a couple of weeks ago, though. crowley did his best to be as vague about it as he could. therefore–” he slips through the gate before will and gently takes the reins of both horses. “–the guards have probably been handling all the interrogation and tracking, and i’d rather join in sooner than later.”

“how come?” will smiles, only trying to pry out an expected answer. halt doesn’t trust anyone to do his job, that he knows.

“there are maybe three or four people in there that i’d trust with what we’re doing, and even that loosely,” halt replies easily, leading the horses - letting them walk, rather - right where they prefer to stay the nights, and bidding goodbye with a nod. from a distance, having already checked most of the cabin’s outer surface, will raises a hand to them as well. “but we don’t need to show up the very second we’re back. it won’t make much difference.”

he offhandedly pulls on the gate, casting one last glance into the depths of the woods.

the gate clicks into place softly when halt closes it, and the sound is so familiar, so engraved in his subconscious will would’ve recognized it anywhere yet still could’ve lived his whole life without remembering it, having to make hopeless peace with the distant feeling of loss somewhere in the back of his head. the sound is so simple, so quiet and so dull, you’d overlook it, you’d never give it a second thought. and he was so used to it, taking it - like so many other things - for granted, and here he was, and he hadn’t heard it in more than a year. and there it was.

the gate clicks into place softly when halt closes it, and will doesn’t know what happens to him. his vision blurs without a warning, surprising even him. he tries to breathe through it, but in the silence as halt briefly talks to abelard only tricks him into hearing more: the crickets in the grass, the wind spinning in the treetops, the distant hum of the woods. and all of them, he remembers from before - remembers none from last year - and here they are again, and will cries.

he doesn’t want to be crying. he’s trying not to cry, but he cries anyway, because he really can’t stop himself. tug looks him in the eye, and will quietly prays he doesn’t tell abelard, because abelard would so much as look at halt, and halt would know.

somehow, though, halt knows anyway. as he turns to look, will glances away, and hopes the morning light is not enough to make the tracks on his cheeks shine. it is. and will still has the expression of a person who’s trying their very best not to give in to tears.

“will,” halt says, and, despite reaching will over the distance from the horses to the cabin, his voice is quiet. “what’s wrong?”

“nothing,” will answers immediately, waving it off, masking his breathing. he means it, too, nothing is truly wrong. quite the opposite, actually: everything’s a bit too right, and the bit overflows him and overwhelms him, and it’s only a little unfortunate his only reaction is crying, but then again, whose wouldn’t be. “it’s– everything, everything’s fine.”

halt nods. he never stopped being able to sense when someone’s lying to him. sometimes will complains about being an open book to him; not today, though. and halt doesn’t nag him about it, which is why will, paradoxically, usually ends up telling him more than he would’ve if he had pried.

“it’s about the "nothing is wrong”, too,“ will tries, and while he’s aware he’s not exactly making much sense, halt, who’s suddenly appeared much closer than he was before, leans against the door, closes his eyes and listens nevertheless. "it’s– just, i, i didn’t think i’d make it back here again.”

there it is, he tells himself, and more tears surface, and halt’s looking at him again. he doesn’t scold. he doesn’t even seem to see them, really.

“me neither,” he says, and will looks up at him. not a muscle in his face indicates disappointment toward him or anything similar, only exhaustion and passive content.

“think we’ll get over it?”

“over what?” will sighs, not up for games, and halt shrugs. “no clue. never been exiled and come back before.”

it makes will chuckle pitifully, and halt looks down to him and softens just a bit.

“it’ll be alright,” he says, barely audible. will nods, and then he knows it will be alright. halt has a penchant for having his word be the truth.

“weird,” will comments absent-mindedly, “how i couldn’t really think of a life outside of this, y'know, i– skandia wasn’t really living.”

“i’m inclined to agree.”

“hah. and i constantly kind of thought - if i’m not here, i’m not really in the correct place, it was…” will makes a wide and helpless gesture, pleading to be understood. “everything here’s just… just, if i wasn’t here, nothing would feel right.”

“but you are here,” halt says, simple but strangely comforting, and will nods again slowly, a smile stretching over his lips.

“yeah.”

all is silent for a minute. it’s as if the moon itself stopped to listen to the wind in the forest and their breaths of white warmth in the cold air of the night.

“i’m glad we’re here,” will says.

“yeah,” halt mutters, mirroring him, and will dives under his arm.

it’s a quiet hug, and although will thinks he might just be crying again, _again_ , but it’s not like anyone can see. halt wordlessly wraps an arm around his shoulders, resting a hand on his head like a parent to a sleeping child.

at some point, will does yawn into halt’s cloak, and halt lets him go. will lingers for a moment, though - the warmth was nice. the morning is cold.

“come on,” halt says, leaving the door of the cabin open, and when will follows after him, he remembers a thousand more things about home - how the floorboards creak, how the door snaps shut, how the wind whistles over the roof, and how easily he could find his way around here in the dark. somewhere in the back of his mind, he can even recall gilan’s exact tone in the pained _“bloody hell!”_ he blurts out whenever he trips over the last step to the door.

 _“_ any coffee?” he asks instinctively, hearing halt shuffling in the kitchen. he appears on the doorway, a little exasperated.

“not a chance.”

will sighs, somehow having expected it.

“really?” halt shakes his head. “bugger.”

“right, do you want to stay up or not?” he raises an eyebrow at will, and, since he’d been seeing it for the past few weeks already, it doesn’t hit will as hard.

“i’m pretty sure i could drink a whole bucket and still knock myself out in less than a minute,” he says, and halt executes the most subtle eyeroll will has ever seen.

“we don’t have any either way,” he reveals, a little upset, and will quirks up.

“how do we just _not have any_? _”_

halt tilts his head, in thought.

“well, they most certainly didn’t keep backup after i was exiled, and i’m sure rowan’s not the type to keep stock,” he reminds, and will deflates a little. “we can pay the markets a visit in the afternoon, though.”

“we should.”

“i won’t argue.” halt shrugs, gesturing to will’s room. “but afternoon still has to come, you know.”

“yeah,” will says. for a second, everything spins.

halt stares at him for a bit.

“i’m telling you to go to sleep,” he clarifies.

“right. morning. night. yeah.” subconsciously, will decides the idea’s not half bad, and does exactly that, scuttling over to the door and pushing it open. “see you, in the… morning, day, whatever. goodnight.”

the door creaks quietly, and will is very, very glad the gates brought him back first, because if this had been his sound of familiarity, he probably would’ve passed out right on the doorstep. this time, though, it just makes him feel warm, and the room is warm too, and it’s all very positively beckoning him to bed.

when he wakes up, he’ll stare at the ceiling for a good half-hour until he manages to stop telling himself he’s dreaming. then, he’ll roll over and see the window, and the sun that’s for once high in the sky and he’ll hear halt walking around the table because he can’t possibly bring himself to be quiet now, and then will, instead of actually getting up, will fall back and eye the ceiling again for a couple more minutes. he’ll listen, and he’ll move around a bit in the bed he was so used to sleeping in and he’ll get used to it once more.

then, only then, he’ll really wake up.

but now will stumbles over, collapsing and barely remembering to kick his shoes off. the door doesn’t close right, but he can’t be bothered to stand up again. halt sighs and pulls it closed as he passes by to his own room (he’s just as exhausted - a little better at hiding it though, but all comes with experience) - and, while he does his best not to make any sound, there’s really no point to it.

will’s already asleep.


	2. the many faces of one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the watch corporal gets an unexpected visitor in the shape of a distant memory - and a very vivid image of an arrow shoved into his face.

“you’re staying?” his men ask him, and he tells them he is. “come on,” they say. “the tavern’s still alive, we’d get you a drink, it’s an occasion, really, come on!”

the corporal stays. nevertheless, he stays. there’s work.

the watch always begs for the attention, and there’s no wrong place to put it, not really. something can always be improved, fixed, reviewed - all with care and caution. that’s what he gets for leading a small union of…

well, who are they, when you think about it?

the watch is not just a union of people who think they can make the town a better place, but also a closely-knit group of friends, and although it makes him a little sad to tell those friends off, day after day, they leave a bit of a mess at the barracks.

well, calling them the barracks could be a little of an overestimation, the watch corporal muses to himself as he breaks a few seals and his table drowns under papers. it’s only a few rooms, and none of them sleep there. it’s merely a place to gather, a place to talk and play and, occasionally, take up some gambling in while they’re not required to be anywhere else.

too bad that, as soon as you’ve got an official name, the official documents start flowing in along with it. complaints, demands, more of the such. nothing actually serious, but glaring from the corner of everyone’s vision, screaming for attention.

so, the corporal finally decides to sit down and do some of the work he was admittedly supposed to have done ages ago, as all good people do (he’s not meant to really focus on his work tonight, though, but he is not aware of that just yet).

he picks up a letter, writes a response, rolls it up neatly. repeats it with another and one more. it’s rather boring work with no personal attachments, not really, those come in only when people turn to them for personal help, like a gang raiding a tavern, people getting attacked on the streets and so on. it’s only natural he tends to tune out a little bit.

somehow, though, something slowly starts creeping up to him. like something that’s strangely wrong, intruding, plotting. it doesn’t upset him per se, but it does make him feel uneasy.

he’s being watched.

he doesn’t know how he comes to that conclusion or if it’s even accurate, but it’s a definite nagging feeling that he knows he hates like no other before. he raises his head for what feels like the first time in hours, but there’s no one around him.

he looks at the paper again, but he can’t shake the feeling. it stays completely still, and, finally, the corporal abandons the table. he picks up his sword instead, and stands up to take a few steps around, maybe clear his head a little bit.

when he does, though, he comes face to face with a man simply leaning against the wall where he was certainly not lurking a mere second ago, hidden carefully in the shadow where the light cannot reach him.

the corporal leaps back, his sword still in hand, and, more from the suddenness of the situation rather than any actual fear, he points it at the shadow.

“who are you?”

“not your enemy, for one,” replies a strangely soft voice, face still masked by the complete stillness of the man’s silhouette.

“show yourself,” the corporal demands, and the shadow complies.

he steps into the dim light of a few torches mounted on the wall, slowly reaching up to pull down the hood of his cloak, and suddenly the corporal is glad he’s still holding the sword.

the man has a completely blank expression on his face, neither fear nor surprise evident, and that, apart from the gray mottled cloak, is what tells the corporal he’s looking at a ranger.

the ranger lets go of the cloak and raises his palms up upon seeing the sword, still voiceless, so the hood stays up. a gesture of peace, the corporal reasons, but he’s still a bit jittery around those people - if they are people at all - so he only lowers the sword a little bit.

“what do you want?” he asks, and here something passes over the ranger’s face, but he doesn’t see it for long enough to recognize it.

“to talk,” he answers calmly, and spins in place just enough to show emptied scabbards on his belt. his voice, again, reminds the corporal of something, but he can’t remember what it was to save his life. “if you’ll put that away.” one finger points at his sword.

“what if i won’t?” the corporal says, and tells himself his hand isn’t shaking. the ranger shrugs.

“then i’ll come back another day.” he doesn’t move an inch, though.

“why sneak up on me like that?” the corporal demands further, and the ranger cracks something that could be called a pitiful attempt at moving his lips up to form what is generally known as a human smile. it looks more like a flat grimace, to be honest.

“you looked busy,” he replies. “i preferred to let you finish what you were doing.”

the corporal huffs quietly, and slowly, very slowly, sheathes his sword in the scabbard by the table. the ranger drops his hands, crossing them over his chest instead.

“right, so, what’s the matter at hand?” the corporal sits back on the chair, offhandedly offering the ranger another one, but he shakes his head.

“it’s brief,” he says. “i’d like to apologize.”

he reaches up to pull his hood off again, this time with no interference.

graying black hair sticks out, and a messy beard, and dark eyes, and the corporal remembers the eyes of death very very suddenly. and they were dark - just as dark, in fact, except glittering with high of alcohol, and the hands of death were holding a bow with a nocked black arrow in front of his face. then he remembers the face of death subdued, and how a smile lingered on his lips when they brought him back to the castle and locked him up, and the watch corporal remembers looking at that pitiful smile and thinking _‘oh, there’s no way this one hasn’t lost it.’_

“i believe,” says the ranger who made him doubt all his life’s moral decisions and very nearly killed him a year ago, “that i gave you a bit of a scare a few months back.”

at first, the corporal gapes. then he tries to stop gaping, and, sadly, it doesn’t work. after that, he tries a bit harder and makes some progress.

“you’re…” he says, and, after a pause, adds, “you’re…”

words to live by, he bites at himself.

“the one drunk who came this close to putting an arrow through your neck - yes.” the ranger holds up a little gap between his two fingers, and presses his lips together. “i figured letting you know i wasn’t really planning on doing that wouldn’t cheer you up all that much, per se, but it’d be better than letting you think there was a deranged ranger running around redmont shooting guards.”

he’s managed to stop gaping, but then he runs into another problem - all the words he has to say in this situation all range from _‘you what?’_ to _'how did you get into this building and should i call for the rest of the guards’._

the ranger uses his surprise to talk a little more. “it was unfair of me to threaten you without the intention, i’d say, and i can’t claim that i enjoyed it all that much,” he says, and there is absolutely no trace of irony or sarcasm anywhere in his tone, except for maybe the hidden bite at the beating after his little show, “but other options all involved truly firing that arrow, and i didn’t really feel like murdering innocent people was a good way to spend a night.”

finally, he finds his tongue.

“you were pointing a bow at me - drunk and knowing you weren’t getting out of the feud you caused unburnt - and now you tell me you weren’t actually going to fire it?” the corporal prides himself on being able to rise only one of his eyebrows at the same time, so he gets a little disappointed when the ranger mirrors his facial expression completely with relative ease. “forgive me if i don’t believe you just like that.”

“oh, i wasn’t hoping you’d really believe what i’m saying, i just wanted to tell you nonetheless,” the ranger shrugs, making a wide gesture. “but _do_ believe me when i tell you i’ve seen every ranger in the country and if one of them went crooked - me included - you’d have a pile of bodies and no ranger. definitely not a few misplaced words and a captured criminal.”

“your bowstring tore,” the corporal reminds him. that’s the sound he remembers the most vividly - a horrible snap, and an incredulous face.

in front of him, however, the ranger’s lips twitch up so barely he would’ve missed it if he wasn’t looking for it. almost as if he was laughing at some joke only he understood.

“right,” he agrees, hiding his hands under the cloak. “whichever way it was, i’m here to say that you have no need to concern yourself with us.”

“that is, that is _exactly_ what someone who was plotting something would say.”

“oh, you’re clever, too clever for your own good, you’ll find.” the ranger gestures widely again, subtly mocking him. then, it all stops, and he looks on to the corporal with something bright shimmering in the dark of his eyes. “you know - i’m rather glad they kept you here.”

“oh?” he replies, a little taken aback.

the ranger turns on his heel and clicks his tongue in thought.

“seems like you do your job right, corporal.”

like most good men do, the corporal sputters something, and hangs on to any unrelated thread he can find.

“didn’t they send you away?” he asks, and only afterwards realizes maybe that wasn’t the best thing to bring up. the ranger doesn’t really seem to mind, though, cocking his head to the side in thought.

“funny words for exile,” he says, and something more like a melancholic smile arises on his face. “but you’re right. lucky, i suppose, that things that get sent away are usually granted the leeway to come back, no?”

he makes for the door without a goodbye, footsteps soundless, and the corporal doesn’t really know what to do. he kind of wants to stand up and ask him why he _really_ dragged himself over there all the way from the woods, but, at the same time, he doesn’t.

in the end, it’s the ranger that looks back. he opens the door and locks eyes with the corporal, looking an odd bit younger than he is with an expression like that.

“one last thing,” he says serenely, “we rather like being able to shoot our arrows. so we make sure our bowstrings don’t just snap at a harder tug.”

then, he disappears, the door clicks unlike when the ranger entered - it made no noise, then - and the corporal sits back, wondering what on earth he was supposed to make of that.

a little later, he’ll remember. maybe it’ll be the next day, next week, next month, even, but he will recall the day after he’d nearly died - or, not nearly, as the ranger said - and innkeeper brought him a knife. it was unpolished but remarkably sharp, as he noticed, matt and rather tiny. _one of your men must have lost it_ , sir, the innkeeper had sworn. but, after asking around, the corporal concluded it must’ve belonged to someone else.

the ranger, he initially thought, but brushed the idea away quite fast. _how would that happen? he hadn’t pulled it out._

the corporal will remember this knife and curse out loud, wherever he is.

but today, he only sits back and dips his quill in black ink, seldom bringing it down to the paper. the ranger’s visit had been strange, but, somewhere deep in the back of his mind, he somehow feels like the ranger had been right - it _is_ relieving to know there are no murderous spies around in those woods, or at least the count is down by one.

the corporal sighs and gets straight back to work.


	3. raise a glass to the past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the princess of clonmel is dead, and it's a loss not only to the state.

halt hears it too late. he hears it too late and in the worst way possible, on a mission through gossip of the townspeople he’s supposed to be searching for answers from. he doesn’t even start his questioning and they already turn to him, seeing no green cloak and no bow, they assume he’s a hunter or a well-off farmer. and so they whisper - _have you heard_ , they say, _of the princess of clonmel? she was quite something, a lovely girl, they say, the last lady of the royal house, the only daughter of the deceased king, the mother of the only heir and a soul braver than most knights, a mind brighter than most strategists_.

 _was_ , halt repeats quietly, a question in mind. _yes_ , they reply. rumour has it that she’s been sick lately, and that now there are no more ladies in the line for the clonmel throne; rumour has it, caitlyn o'carrick has been found by her desk with ink spilled over a letter, her head on her arms and her eyes closed. rumour has it she has passed. 

few words can make someone like halt feel like his heart sank to his stomach like that. few words can make his mind go so empty. few words can make him swallow his own tongue. he tries to change the topic, he tries to focus on his task at hand - who’s been robbing travelers by the gates, he asks, who’s been butchering cattle and leaving no trails. but his thoughts won’t hold, his memory won’t comply and his throat won’t stop muffling his voice. in the end, they don’t tell him much - they sing usual songs and halt tries his best to summon back his curiosity, his usual ability to get information through chatter and forced laughter. it does not work. his head feels heavy. his chest is empty.

 _“_ what do we know,” crowley asks when he drags himself back to their campsite, abelard’s head low as if he senses his rider’s disturbance. 

“nothing,” halt snaps at him with no real bite and too much emotion. he takes a short breath and repeats, not so bristled this time, “we know nothing. we know less than we knew before.” crowley’s expression is too puzzled to seem disappointed; halt has never failed to bring something new back with him. he does not want to speak, either. 

“we’ll try again tomorrow, then,” crowley says, simple as that. halt faces away from him, nods. it doesn’t feel like he even heard what was said. crowley senses his hesitance and makes a note of it. he feels - and rightfully so - that his friend is frustrated about something else than the mission.

unable to sleep, halt curses the ambiguity of rumours and the impulsive nature of those who spread them. he curses his choice of the pub and he curses the chain of events that lead him there. his heart rests uneasy. he fears for his sister and he fears for his own peace, shall the rumour turn out to be true.

crowley, again, takes note of the reddened and sleepless dark eyes and tries not to pry too hard, but halt answers every question with words of one syllable and doesn’t even suggest any alternatives to anything crowley says. he always does. he radiates the cold, but not with crowley, not when they’re alone, not ever.

finally, they head out. halt doesn’t object to them pairing up, which crowley also finds a bit odd. one person is typical for gathering clues, but he does not avoid admitting that he worries.

halt searches and he asks around in hushed whispers crowley cannot hear. halt asks about caitlyn, faint hope in his heart that gets watered down harder and harder after each provides him with the same answer - dead, dead, dead. just a few tables away, crowley is slowly but surely tearing the drinkers’ defenses down, asking and answering innocently and with ease only an experienced liar could fake. he sees halt join the table and question the people as well, but he does not hear the soft tone and the breaking voice, and that he’s asking a completely different question.

halt does not speak for the entire ride to the outskirts of the town, where they set up camp on clear nights to be safe. they put up the tents and feed abelard and cropper voicelessly. finally, crowley’s confusion breaks the silence. 

“what happened last night,” he asks, vague enough so halt can lie if he feels like it. 

“i didn’t find anything out,” halt answers grimly, and now crowley hears it. a silent noise a tightening throat makes of a person trying to stay calm. 

“that’s not what i mean, you know that,” he presses lightly. halt is a good trickster. he’ll tread his way out of anything if he wants to. but now, he does not. 

“i don’t want to talk about what you meant,” he answers dryly, and crowley nods. he’s not unused to that grim attitude, even if he knows halt to be much more patient than he lets on now. 

“then don’t,” crowley permits, his voice a bit rounder, softer than it usually is. “but know that not only are you my ranger, you’re my friend. if something drags on you, it’ll do no good to the mission, or to you. or me.”

halt does not relent. he keeps to himself, as he always does, and if crowley didn’t spend so much of his time around the hibernian, he wouldn’t notice how awful he looks. halt’s knives hit targets like they’ve all personally offended him, and once he pulls an arrow out of the quiver with such a sharp gesture that it’s whistling before it’s even drawn. he talks little - he’s always talked little, but now he doesn’t say as much as a word other than to discuss the next move, the next location, the next tavern.

it grows on crowley, and it grows the wrong way. he was not very fond of keeping secrets as a social norm, despite his own job holding more secrets than any other in the land, but he held affectionate respect for halt and didn’t bother him about his thoughts most of the time. still he’s rather good at people-watching, and even halt is not unreadable. something boils, and crowley is not all that sure he wants to see that something explode.

an attack gives it a push. a tavern fight turns to them, and even though they do their usual best to stay out of it, some passing drunk sloppily latches onto crowley and, as if he did not already have enough trouble, tears the silver oakleaf necklace right from his chest. now, they had an unwritten agreement that halt would maybe snap a finger in front of crowley’s face once or twice in this kind of situation to get him back to his senses, seeing as crowley was not a man of steel nerve, but as he balls his fists and takes a stance, halt’s already ahead of him and, suddenly, they’ve switched.

crowley sees halt disappear amidst the shadows of the drunken brawl, undoubtedly diving around like fish in water, and, without thinking, he chases. halt is a chaotic wind and there’s nothing less to say of him. crowley searches and kicks and bites his way through, losing and regaining the sight of a reddening dark head that seems to be moving everywhere at once. and, when it comes to an end as quickly as it started when some guards come through, they finally come to see each other again. eyeing his bruises and his cuts, halt holds out the retrieved and miraculously unharmed silver leaf to crowley with a hand stained with blood. he had not held back. accepting his necklace, crowley frowns, but before he can reach out to halt’s face to see the extent of the damage, halt ducks under his arm and is gone through the door.

they’re silent on their horses once more, until they’re not. at first, there’s a little sigh from halt, as if he’d been holding a breath the entire time, and then a quiet murmur; _my sister is dead_ , he tells, and crowley damn near falls off cropper. he knows of halt’s past, most things, he’d been assured, but not of the details - and even though he’s pretty sure something like a sister would not be regarded as a detail, he refrains from commenting and waits for halt to continue. 

“my little sister is dead,” halt says, looking somewhere away from the road and crowley, and crowley knows the way the words must feel on his tongue, foreign, unacceptable. “she’d– she’d always been sick, but, but never to the extent that our parents worried. they found her by her table. i hadn’t seen her since i was seventeen, but i,” and his voice gives out to silence. almost like a shameful secret, he admits, “i had missed her.”

crowley should say something, he knows, but his tongue’s in a knot. he understands. halt does not say any more. glancing at him, crowley realizes that he tries - he tries parting his lips and talking, but the intention dies down within him, and crowley’s own chest tightens. he had not yet seen halt so. and so he can offer little advice.

they set up camp once more, and they clean each other’s wounds to the best of their ability. “none-the-wiser, are we,” crowley’s smile is faint, but halt glances down with a hint of his own. 

“you keep talking and i’ll stick this shard deeper into your skull instead of getting it out.” soon, the piece of glass shatters on the ground and halt halfheartedly kicks it to the side as crowley grimaces, touching the wound. “you’ll get it dirty,” halt comments without so much as turning to look. crowley pulls a lip, and halt adds, “you know the drill. an ulcer in this ditch would be an awful way to go, don’t you think?”

it takes him a second to associate joking words and grim memories, and he falls silent again. this time, crowley doesn’t wait long. he stands and pulls halt into a hug. it’s simple; it’s warm. halt doesn’t protest, oddly, he just kind of digs his face into crowley’s shoulder. they stay still for a little, neither counting seconds and neither willing to admit to the strange feeling of timelessness.

“it’ll be alright, yeah?” crowley mutters, and feels halt’s face twist slightly. 

“yeah,” he breathes, and lets go. crowley lingers for a minute before drawing back too, his hand still resting on his friend’s shoulder.

halt is not looking at him. halt’s eyeing the ground, actually, undoubtedly still overtaken by his thoughts. and crowley asks, then. better to talk than to let it boil. 

“was she anything like you?” and it’s innocent enough, and he sees something on halt’s face that maybe could’ve turned into a smile if he’d had it in him. 

“no,” he answers, and it goes easy. “she was nothing like me.” then, nearly casually, he adds, “i don’t think i could’ve handled her if she was anything like me.” and it’s a little joke sent in crowley’s direction, and he wants to hug halt again, but he doesn’t.

halt sleeps. crowley knows, because he checked. halt had passed out before even making it onto the ground properly. crowley smiles. he’s glad he won’t see red eyes in the morning. he keeps his watch for a little longer than he always does.

eventually, halt seems to forget. he does not, of course, but he seems to. crowley doesn’t hear a word about his sister, not tomorrow, not that week. he’s not all that worried, either. halt is not upset, by the looks of it. and if he does not look upset, then his inside will settle down eventually. it’s just the way he is.

crowley makes sure to smile a little wider. just a bit. and although halt has never thought smiling to be contagious, his eyes slowly, slowly grow a little lighter in their darkness. he could talk about her again, and, although he does not, the reassurance is enough. it feels like, finally, it feels like everything will be okay.


	4. late nights, tiny mountains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> will tends to exhaust himself, and alyss can only watch with boundless exasperation.

will’s mind could do a wonderful spectrum of various things.

most people that knew him realized that. to some, it was obvious. rangers had that something about them; a sparkle in their eye that screamed knowledge of what they were doing, an aura of calculated action and a wise word. safety in presence of danger; the opposite - danger, in presence of otherwise comfortable circumstance.

will was, of course, no different.

his head functioned much like a well-wired piece of perfected clockwork; quick, sharp, precise and doing everything in its power to keep itself attached to his shoulders. amidst the many talents, it could run fast, duck fast, think fast, catch falling things and throw them fast, shoot fast, and it was a bloody _expert_ when it came to putting off paperwork.

oh, the paperwork.

he’d see it in his dreams, sometimes. piles of it, mountains, suffocating him. it was far more frustrating than scary, but he welcomed them, a nice change from the usual weekly nightmare of drowning in the sea, tied to a mast of a skandian boat.

rangers get used to a lot of things during their service. if not, at least they learn how to deal with them. nightmares, okay. rolling out of bed at absurd hours in the morning (or, what reasonable folk called it, late night), because some idiot managed to collectively piss off the entire castle guard with two goats and an insufferable accent, okay. the sudden hatred for anyone who dares to sit in the corner behind the door (also known as the best seat) in any tavern, okay. unprompted feelings of merciless dread with no foreseeable reason, followed by episodes of restless panic for hours at a time, (through gritted teeth,) okay.

paperwork? never.

there was something so dull, so mentally exhausting about sitting down with a quill between your fingers and scribbling away for hours, the commander himself had resigned right about four times before his own rangers stopped taking him seriously.

and will was an exceptional ranger, there was no doubt about it, but when it came to the devil’s pages, he was a stereotype in every way there was.

pushing away his (second) cup of coffee, he groaned.

“alyss,” he said. alyss didn’t look up from her book. she was settled comfortably in their bed, by the table, another cup in her hand, only half-empty. a little louder, will called, “alyss.” after a pause, debating whether she was doing it on purpose, he continued, “my love. light of my life. my dearest heartpiece. my sweetest–”

“hm?” she looked sleepy, eyelids drooping, eyebrows raised in an effort to keep herself awake. she preferred to wait until will was all done and ready to climb into bed with her, but the papers on will’s desk also seemed quite interested in an affair with the courier’s husband.

“i think ’m gonna retire now,” will said. alyss snorted, dropping the book down on the bed and pushing it away onto the nightstand. “i’m serious,” will said, being, in fact, not serious at all.

“whatever you say. as long as it leaves you more time with me.” she leaned back onto the pillows, smiling at him, and will suddenly felt a little more serious about retirement.

sighing, he dipped his quill into the ink and hunched over the paper again.

“keep your back straight,” alyss said, eyes closed.

“i am,” will lied.

she made a noise of offense. “do you think i’m a good courier, will?”

will blinked.

“of course, love,” he said, genuine. “the best, if i have anything to say about it.”

she opened one eye very slightly. “then why do you think you can get away with lying to me?”

will groaned, falling back onto the chair. “if i think about posture, i’ll get them done even slower.”

“and if you don’t think about posture, you’ll be sore tomorrow,” she chimed back, and he shrugged.

“as long as it’s over.”

she sighed.

“oh, will…” slowly, she stretched her arms out, bringing a hand to cover up a yawn before sitting up.

will stared blankly at the page as she made her way over and wrapped her arms loosely around his shoulders, pretty much towering over him.

“stop doing this to yourself, darling,” alyss muttered into his hair. will took a breath, leaning back and looking up at her. she smiled down, planting a feather-light kiss on his nose.

amidst his sheepish chuckling, he managed, “they’re terribly boring.” they weren’t, in fact, only boring. every time will sat down, he felt like his soul was being sucked out through the tips of his fingers.

“it’s called routine.” she went from kissing his nose to both of his eyelids, then his forehead, finally the top of his head. “you’re supposed to get used to it.”

“i got used to getting up before dawn in a week,” will said, eyeing his own hand that was holding the quill. “i got used to bowstring blisters on my fingers in a month. i got used to,” alyss ran her fingers through his hair, cutting him off, coaxing a silent noise of comfort out of him. “to mapping out every street i see in an unfamiliar land in a year, and…. this, those, i’ve been doing for right around fifteen years and i’m nowhere near getting used to it.”

“all those things you learned under halt, maybe he should teach you that putting it off is not the best idea either, too,” alyss said, not unkindly, and undoubtedly with the bright glimmer in her eye that will possibly loved the most about her.

nevertheless, he flinched out of her grasp with a huff.

“halt? halt would be a good reason _not_ to do it.” he turned the chair to her, looking up. she was nice. she was home. he shook his head. “bring me halt, i’ll bring up everything since the day i became his apprentice in an effort to keep myself away from the paperwork.”

“then how about nothing,” she suggested. “nothing at all - on the desk, in the room. just the paper.”

“ah, would you look at that,” will said, holding up his arms. “i have hands!”

alyss laughed a hearty laugh, the one she had deep in her chest and the one will always aimed for, and walked straight into his arms. he rested his forehead against her waist, listening to the distant heartbeat, closing his eyes. it felt like there was nothing else he’d ever do other than stay here, with her, bickering and laughing. nothing else was real - although, most of all, he was hoping the paperwork was not real.

but it was. _oh_ , it was.

alyss brushed her fingers against will’s neck, leaning down to press her lips against the very top of his curls again. he grabbed her wrist gently, bringing every finger to his mouth, kissing her hand.

alyss snickered. “i won’t do it for you.”

“no, i know you won’t,” will replied, playing a little sad. “if you would, i would’ve started trying to warm you up to it a while before sitting down to do it myself.”

“reasonable.” she finally drew back, cupping his face, still smiling down at him softly.

for a bit, will wondered how he managed to marry a goddess.

“be kinder to yourself, dear,” she said, and will sort of decided it wouldn’t be wise to tell her that, if she looked at him like that and spoke like that more, he would literally do whatever she asked of him. anything. “or to your future self, at least.”

“okay,” will said, barely audible, and alyss seemed surprised at the advice so swiftly taken. letting him go, she stumbled back to the bed, far more sleepy than she was before all of a sudden.

“that’s to be sent out… when?” waving her hand toward the paper, alyss dug herself a little den under the blankets, hiding from the coolness of the room. will muttered something under his breath. “what was that?”

“tomorrow,” he said, just a little louder.

a pause lingered, and then alyss burst into laughter at will’s absolute misery. _a goddess she might be_ , will thought, _but a goddess of vengeance and darkness._

“honestly, will,” she said through grit teeth. “you’re something else. you are.”

“i’d like to think that’s why we’re together, love,” will responded, mindlessly leaning over the paper to continue his work.

“because of your poor time management?” alyss was barely keeping it together, and, considering she was one of the most hard-faced diplomats in the country, will’s talent to make her laugh was quite a feat. “i doubt it.”

“what else is good in me?” will snickered himself, and alyss made a face.

“shut up, finish the job and come here,” she said, hiding completely under the blankets, her sweet voice muffled. “and i’ll show you.”

will’s quill promptly decided it had trained in speed along with a couple of ranger horses.

in conclusion, will treaty’s mind was a remarkable thing. mostly remarkable when a certain alyss mainwaring was around (also the most stupid at those times, admittedly), but will could say it worked just fine on its own.

but if there was nobody to scold him for his poor habits, really, where was the joy in living out the days of a terribly capable person with little to no order in life?

there was none, he thought, as did most rangers with people who were considerably more likely to finish a job they didn’t like than them.

slowly, the paperwork pile shrank and shrank. at some point, will glanced to the side, catching a glimpse of alyss’s back, moving steadily, with her already asleep. will smiled, decided only sane, well-composed non-ranger people really need sleep anyway, and reached for the inkhorn.


	5. their oaths said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pritchard is gone, banished until his last days, and crowley has more than a few thoughts on the matter to voice to the commander.

they had to drag him away, physically. they all knew there was no talking him down or getting him to shut up unless he was restrained. he’s never been the cold-minded type, or the type to hold back, he was used to talking his mind, and it was an advantage, encouraged, until it wasn’t.

brutal truthfulness. quick to flare. difficult to suffocate. _they_ , they were all difficult to suffocate, put down, tuck away like they never existed. and they persisted. despite everything, despite losing friends, family, themselves, almost. and yet they all bit their tongues until a certain point. to keep the others safe, themselves safe, here, able to help in some way. 

he decided there was no use for it anymore.

they all had a string inside them. a ranger’s string was steel, bent, pulled, tugged on, endlessly, but never broken. steel doesn’t break.

and, this day, his string caught on fire.

they all recognized the red hair under the hood of the cloak, flying off, flying closer, their horses - the only good ones left - raised their heads to greet cropper, and cropper wailed a warning. 

they should’ve stepped in the second they recognized him, the familiar - the freckles and the pale cheeks and wide bright eyes. they should’ve taken into account the unfamiliar - the twitching hands and the exhausted mount and the way his jaw was so tense the grit of his teeth was almost audible. he had the expression of an explosion waiting to happen, and they hoped in futility he’d prove them wrong.

he did not. they all knew he had grace, but he slipped off cropper and hit the ground with such a dull thud it would’ve given the impression that he’d forgotten how to ride, if he hadn’t been a ranger, known to all of them. he ran toward them - _crowley, crowley, crowley_ , echoed between the men, fearful, but not of him. rather, of what he’d do. they all knew. they hoped in futility he’d prove them wrong.

he did not. he latched onto the first one he could reach. in him, a man and a boy, and fear and rage and so much he shouldn’t take on just yet. a ranger and an apprentice, an apprentice to one, they said once, a hero to many, but there are no real heroes in this world anymore, not if it happened, not if nobody were to stop it. _where, where is he_ , he asked, shouted, wailed, _where did he put him, what did he do to him, is it true, is it true!_ he hoped in futility, he begged them to prove him wrong.

they did not. they could not.

he read the answer easy on their faces.

the string melted into a single pillar of fire. on him - only on him. 

and nothing he could do. 

the cause of grief was tucked away safely, so far, unreachable, untouchable. unimaginable were the ways in which men could ruin lives with a deceitful word and a piece of meaningless paper, a lie and a liar to match, and he’d ignored it for so long, wrongfully, knowing, letting it pile up. he had hoped one of them would rally all, confirm what they were all feeling - it was enough, it was _enough_ , but the day seemed to get pushed further and further, and, frankly, he was tired of it.

helplessness might’ve been the worst feeling there was in the entire world. not his frustration, not his anger, not every single nerve in his brain screaming about how unfair this all was - just the knowledge that he had no power to change anything at all.

slowly, slowly, the fingers let go of the cloak and closed into fists by his sides. shaking. no masking his face, whatever it said - were it tears, or tensed jaw, or lips pressed together so tightly he didn’t think he’d ever open his mouth again.

he didn’t want to see the pity on their faces. he didn’t want to join them in mourning. he wanted to shout, kick, cut, cut the responsible up into little pieces, find the responsible, find _him_ \- 

bring morgarath to his knees, and make him pick up every shattered piece he tore out of the corps. every piece he tore out of crowley.

in the end, it all came down to morgarath. 

in the end, it all came down to a man sitting safely in a castle miles away, where none of them could touch him. he didn’t feel their weight - in fact, he might just have felt nothing at all. all of the men he exiled, all of them disappeared, and, to him, it was tick after tick, success, success, success.

for them, loss, after loss, after loss. 

and he was stuck, they were all stuck, hoping it’d stop.

and now pritchard was gone, and he was one of many.

he turned on his heel, burning up. 

his eyes hooked onto a tent - the tent - and the flames soared outward.

here it stood, the facade. the corps were still running straight, it said, and it was the most ridiculous lie morgarath had ever constructed. one of his own, granted, useless, disgusting, pretending to be one of their own. the closest creature to morgarath they had was this, this, man, let’s say - crowley’s tongue would never willingly rise to call him a ranger. pritchard was a ranger, the men surrounding him were rangers, he was a ranger. stilson was a marionette, strung up by morgarath himself, nothing but a face, a fraud, a liar and a dim-witted fool.

and yet, here he was - and the blood that made his strings up was connected to the very tips of morgarath’s fingers, and crowley imagined for a moment cutting them all up - red strings, torn, falling, falling.

if morgarath was sending message after message, ruining life after life, maybe he deserved a message himself.

crowley was glad to be the one to send it.

he took a breath and sprung out of place, unthinking, hearing the rangers behind him jolt forward too. no time to be concerned for himself. they had long had enough, all of them. it was just so their youngest broke first.

they had to drag him away, because if they didn’t, he’d do what they all were longing to do, what was unspeakable. they wouldn’t accept the boy who they all saw graduate so few months ago be the lamb to the fire. 

he’d just give them a push. at a certain time, they would all snap. but they wouldn’t let him bite it first. they owed it to the both of them, the one and his apprentice.

the ranger in their arms thrashed and kicked, and screamed.

“lying son of a bitch!” his voice cut through the forest, deafening, full, in a way, terrifying. crowley had long been angry, but they’d never seen him openly show it. “he’d done nothing! he’d done nothing! degenerate piece of–”

they caught up to him far faster than they could’ve under normal circumstances. they grabbed him by the arms, waist, hood, everything they could reach. one of them pressed a hand to his mouth, hard, rendering him silent. crowley bit. farrel didn’t relent.

nobody ever told them how hard it was to hold down someone they agreed with.

they had to drag him away, because if they didn’t, pupil would follow teacher or simply disappear. before the tent of the command moves, gives any indication that they’ve heard the hooves, the screams. 

they couldn’t let him hear. 

they wrestled crowley to the ground, they weighed him down, pinned him, one of them right on him, flat, fist to his teeth. crowley kicked, but to no avail. he made noise behind sealed lips, deep in his throat, but to no avail. 

it took some time. not to calm him, but to tire him. make sure his legs weren’t moving as well as they should, that he couldn’t ball his fists as tightly. make sure his throat was dry and muscles aching.

make sure he couldn’t doom himself.

the handle of farrel’s seax was cool against crowley’s hip - they’d torn his shirt as they were pulling him down. his hand on crowley’s mouth was far warmer. and far bloodier.

farrel leaned in to his face, nearly pressing his forehead against crowley’s, sharp eyes meeting their match, but his were firmer.

his voice was quiet. “make a noise when i let you go and i’ll carve out your tongue.”

as they held their staring contest, one side far more well-armed than the other, the woods froze in wait. anticipation or dread, they melted together. indistinguishable.

silence, silence, until its end.

footsteps, the horror climbing in all of them. like a silent song approaching a rapid crescendo and a sudden strike. 

but there would be none. there could be none.

as soon as stilson walked around this tent, the pile of rangers flooded back into a deformed circle, synchronized to every last finger, all the hands on crowley suddenly letting go, the pressure that grounded him evaporating, leaving the cold, the threat and the heat, violently boiling to one.

he sat up. fists on the ground. shirt torn, hair tousled, cheeks wet. slowly, his hands rose, but to harm nothing - he merely pulled up his hood. there was no noise.

the silence dragged on. the only one who could harm crowley, and the rest of them, was himself.

trust him. trust _him._

“what on earth are you lot up to now?” stilson sounded exhausted. 

leander perked up before anyone else could.

“practice, commander,” he said, deceitfully cheerful.

if stilson was any good for a ranger, he would’ve caught on. he didn’t. 

“could’ve waited until noon,” he muttered. his eyes wandered to crowley. “oh, meratyn. i didn’t see you around.”

something in him shattered. he contained it. for the love of all that was dear for them, he contained it.

crowley’s lips twitched up. 

“that would be the point, commander,” he said.

it seemed like the sky breathed a sigh of relief. some colour returned to the rangers’ faces.

“right, sure.” stilson waved a hand in indifference, turning to go, followed by his empty-eyed snobs in silver necklaces in toe. “don’t kill anyone while the day’s still young.”

as they disappeared out of sight, the company took a second to stare crowley down. not judging, not exasperated. in fact, none of them could really pin-point what they were feeling. a few moved closer to stilson’s tent – to watch that he doesn’t overhear.

there was little risk. stilson was an idiot.

“now why’d you have to go and do that,” samdash said, quietly dusting off his cloak. a few others followed. “you had to know we wouldn’t let you get to him.”

“why not?” his throat was dry, clearly, voice spent on anger. there were traces of it left, like sparks from a dying fire. “i could’ve cut his throat. reckon he deserves it.”

leander slowly separated from the group and crouched down by crowley, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“we’re not claiming he’s a good man, crowley.” he spoke like he was explaining something to a child. “but, alright - imagine we don’t stop you. imagine you throw yourself at stilson and slice his throat.”

“if you don’t get his own sliced first by the bastards surrounding him,” norris commented. 

“if,” leander agreed. “but it doesn’t matter. stilson dies. for what? it doesn’t bring pritchard back. it doesn’t,” he paused, gathering his voice. “it doesn’t bring any of them back. morgarath appoints a new commandant, maybe worse than the last. he has all sorts of them in that court.”

“and we lose credibility,” samdash added dryly. “mutiny in the ranger corps, great addition to our current image, i’m sure.”

“we could do without,” leander said. not to them. to crowley.

who unceremoniously swatted his hand off his shoulder.

“that’s what we’re gonna do, then?” his voice quivered. nails dragging on the ground. “just sit down and take it, until there are no right rangers left? that’s your plan?”

“stay down, crowley,” farrel said, calmly, and crowley, to his own surprise, stayed. “the murder of stilson, as much of an, all the things you called him, he is, would bring more problems than it would solve. listen to what we’re telling you. he didn’t banish anyone. you reckon the prick would even be able to tell a good ranger from the bunch? those are morgarath’s ideas.”

“then let’s get to morgarath,” crowley said, unflinching. “let’s kill him, then. stilson can’t stop us.”

farrel sighed.

“didn’t pritchard teach you anything about planning? about being ready, not rushing into everything?”

“he did, plenty, yeah.” crowley stood, all of a sudden sounding far more bitter than angry. “and now he’s gone.”

silence settled again. if only for one moment, they felt it - the lost, the dead, the exiled, all with them. filling the gaps, filling the empty. 

_by my brothers i’ll stand_ , their oaths said. _from this day, until my last day._

and all of them, all of them, are, _were_ –

“day’s still young, he said it himself.” farrel settled back, axe in hand. “for us. for them, the sun sets.” his eyes found crowley’s again. _find the message - keep your head high, and wait_. “you only have to watch the horizon, and have patience.”

“so we’re talking in riddles now,” crowley muttered. just for show. 

he saw it. he saw them, for what they were. for the knives tucked away, teeth gritting behind lips, scabbards and quivers and bows, fletching arrows, whispering among themselves, never to the others. 

never to the ones they held in disgrace, dirt pooling on their oakleaves. the oakleaves - the silver was blinding, so clean, so polished, _proud_ , damnit, proud of something they didn’t earn, didn’t deserve. the rest of them held necklaces that would absorb sunlight instead of reflecting, should the need arise to hide, but their oakleaves were clean. _they_ , were clean.

there were twelve of them left.

they were still tightly knitted together, all of them, unwilling to give to morgarath and stilson what they so badly wanted, unwilling to bow, run from service, despite it being almost justified at this point. service wasn’t service anymore.

it was a game, and, for the first time in a hundred and thirty years, the ranger corps was losing. the ranger corps was burning from the inside out.

 _i will perish_ , their oaths said, _before i abandon my brothers._

thirty-eight had gone.

if eleven hadn’t stopped the twelfth, he would’ve been the thirty-ninth.

crowley closed his eyes.

“i’d enjoy throwing morgarath off a cliff immensely,” he said, quietly, but they all heard. “followed by all of the blood-thirsty smirking bastards in his court. it’d be a lovely sight.” a few smiled.

“practise until you can lift him,” samdash suggested, making a beeline for the coffee soon after. “maybe we’ll gift you the honour.”

crowley shrugged. maybe they really would. hardly a thing to joke about, he thought.

“we’re sharing a tent,” leander announced to the group. some snickered pitifully. crowley grimaced in acceptance.

“i suppose i deserve it.”

“yes, crowley,” he said, softly. “what you don’t deserve, however, is what you were about to do to yourself just now.”

crowley made a wide gesture.

“morgarath _exiled_ him,” he muttered, and the helplessness in his voice hurt. “i just thought it’d mean something.”

“it wouldn’t have. he would’ve shrugged, turned around and made things worse.“ 

farrel’s voice brought their eyes to the ranger, who was smiling an odd grim smile.

“but don’t you worry.” he gently ran his fingers down the handle of his battleaxe. “because of pritchard, and because of the rest of us, one day he’ll wish he was never born.”


	6. it takes a while

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> halt sees within himself the remnants of house o'carrick.

it takes him a while to find what nags him about his own self. or, rather - what he’s turning into. in flashes, he finds himself resembling ferris more than anything.

he catches a glimpse of his figure in muddy water, and the silhouette that stares back at him is far more like ferris than himself.

maybe it’s the hair, halt figures. it’s gotten longer. he doesn’t bother stopping abelard - simply unsheathes his seax, sits up straighter and cuts his hair as short as he can in the middle of the road. just like that.

behind him, crowley snickers.

“couldn’t have waited until we stop for the night?” he asks as cropper catches up.

“no,” halt answers. too quiet for him to hear. a little louder, he reaffirms, “no.”

crowley doesn’t ask. halt is glad. he wouldn’t know what to say.

next time he sees himself, it’s a small mirror in pauline’s room. they’re talking. about what, he couldn’t exactly describe, but he’s made her laugh at a point - she has a lovely laugh. shame she doesn’t show it much.

then again, the same thing can be said about him. he brushes it off and keeps on listening. she talks, and everything seems so much more interesting.

absent-mindedly, he glances to the side, at the mirror. there is a foreign sparkle in his eye.

not quite mischievous. relaxed, more like. bright and easy. disappears as soon as he sees it.

she notices him looking and smiles, wondering no doubt how many times he’s actually looked in a mirror - they’re quite expensive, after all.

the answer is hundreds. maybe thousands. halt didn’t exactly find money to be an issue in childhood, being the crown prince and all. but nobody would be able to tell from the way he was looking at it.

he swears to all things he holds dear that ferris stares back at him, almost taunting. the rest of the view is his, but the little glimmer in his eye and the crinkle by his mouth screams _ferris_. viciously.

pauline doesn’t ask either. she, unlike crowley, doesn’t notice his startled look.

halt is glad about that, too. his voice gets a little quieter and his answers briefer for the evening.

another day, when part of his hair is long enough to start curling again, crowley watches him mix honey into his coffee with a mildly offended expression.

“wouldn’t you put that away?” he nudges halt’s arm lightly. “the smell will scare even the skunks off.”

halt hasn’t got much for jokes, but he does for subtle insults.

“well,” he says, making a point to take as loud of a sip as he can, “you’re still here.”

crowley pauses for a moment - just enough for halt to draw the cup back from his teeth before he can get them punched out - and surges forward, knocking halt down with hits one can barely feel. halt hisses and falls over anyway, dragging him along, returning the feigned aggression.

it’s a mock fight, really, and halt is pretty sure crowley is laughing, and the only reason he isn’t is because the damned bastard soon ends up on top of him and also isn’t the lightest fellow in the corps.

“you’re being very rude for a little man,” crowley informs him, and halt hits him in the stomach. he doubles over, a few inches away from his face.

“see what i mean,” halt says, pushing crowley’s head away with both hands. he hears a snicker, muffled against his palms, and a smile edges itself into his voice. “and you claim no feral creatures to be present?”

it’s then something in the snarky way he says it stops him. something in the smile, or the smirk, or whatever he wears at the time. he doesn’t see crowley getting up, or that they did, after all, tip over his coffee. instead, he hears his own voice different. he hears it different, and it hits him like a tidal wave of freezing water, and he remains on the ground, blind to crowley’s offered hand.

he can make out ferris again. not his words, not his thoughts, but he hears him, clear as day, and it reminds him of so many things. _maybe there’s something wrong with the sword. maybe you should just try harder. and you say i’m lousy with climbing! try again. not that you’re gonna have any luck with it._

“did i do you worse than i should’ve?” comes a half-worried, half-joking voice. not ferris. ferris’ voice came from halt’s own throat, he finds.

crowley notices the shift, because of course he does, and cocks his head to the side, barely noticeable. he always does when he’s concerned. halt pays little attention.

“y'alright?” crowley asks. halt nods.

he doesn’t want to hear ferris again.

he doesn’t, not for a long time. they don’t have any time for listening for any delusions, anyway.

halt doesn’t hear ferris, but they do hear _from_ ferris. not directly, anyhow, but their courier in dun kilty sends letter after letter detailing executions and interrogations based on little more than paranoia.

the king’s unwillingness to care for his people. all those dying in the streets. all those diseased and poor and those that will disappear due to his ignorance.

it disgusts him. and not only him.

“dear me, halt,” crowley mutters, throwing the letter on the table. “seems to me like you’re the only decent hibernian around, these days.”

halt freezes in his place at the indirect comparison - him before his brother. crowley doesn’t fully understand what he said, of course, or what halt takes away from it.

but, the next time he smiles (a small and concealed smile that nobody except him knows was even there), he feels a little closer to himself.

next time he sees his shadow, it stems from his feet. it’s long and dark, but it depends on him, nobody else. he turns around so he doesn’t see it - and the sun warms his face.

once, as they’re sitting around with not much to do but talk, pritchard says something - the meaning of his words escapes halt, but he’s sure it was a jab at him and crowley, and the latter howls with laughter next to him. halt follows, laughing until he can’t breathe anymore.

he hears ferris again, but this time it reminds him that all they have is the same voice. this is him, he thinks to himself. he’ll never be ferris.

it takes him a long, long while to realize he doesn’t see ferris in him. he sees himself.

only happier.


	7. two stories in a night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in the ward of redmont, a story is told.
> 
> in the woods of araluen, two rangers make their way.

mistress aggie doesn’t tell stories often. it’s a shame, all of them agree; she’s just as cut out to be a travelling artist as she is to run an orphanage. if she’s over by their beds to tell a story, they all gather around. nobody in the right mind would willingly miss it. her singing voice is exceptional, her face scrunches up and her eyes grow wide with emotion when she talks.

on a summer day when the sky is still red, she ushers them to their beds with the promise of a good tale. when they’re bundled up in their blankets, she smiles at their expectant faces and laces her fingers over her knees. she loves the children; and the children love her, too, as one of the very few that ever genuinely cared for them.

“settle down, you flock o’ hounds,” she tells them. needlessly. they haven’t made a single noise. george hums quietly. “yes?”

“a flock, is, uh, a flock, is for… ah…” he trails off, scratches his head. “birds! it’s for, um, birds.”

mistress aggie gives him another smile and reaches out to ruffle his hair. 

“i know that, silly boy,” she tells him softly. “you little folk are just so busy these days, you might as well be sparrows with a dog bark. giving all of us headaches.” it is true - the kids seem to be everywhere, disappearing and reappearing where and when most inconvenient.

“tell us a story, mistress,” jenny insists, leaning forward in enthusiasm. “we’ve been good!”

“i’m sure you have, jenny.” mistress aggie nods to her, turning to the remaining children. “can’t say the same for you three, can i? been real rowdy the past bit, haven’t you?”

the boys open their mouths to protest in unison while alyss just looks vaguely pleased with herself, but mistress aggie holds up a hand.

“that’s alright,” she says, and they quiet down. she opens her arms in invitation. “so! what kind of story would my little rascals like this fine evening?”

“tell us about knights!” horace exclaims, and there’s a sigh to his side. he glares at will. “what?”

“it’s always knights with you,” will mutters, not too loud as to not make horace think he’s being defiant enough to warrant a smack on the back of the head. “why do you never want to hear about something else? something scary, say. i’ve heard the kids in town ask for scary stories before bed.”

“maybe you should move to town, then! though i doubt anyone would take you in,” horace tells him with a crooked grin. 

“that’s well enough.” mistress aggie fixes him with a stern look. 

“don’t you want to be a knight, will?” jenny asks him. will shifts uncomfortably in his bed, muttering.

“yeah, but i’d prefer to hear stories from other knights, not made-up ones.” he turns to mistress aggie with a guilty face. “not that i, you know… i love your stories, mistress.”

“it’s quite alright, will.” she gives him a gentle pat on the head.

“in all fairness, horace,” alyss says, and her voice is even and commanding for a little girl. she waits until she has all the attention and continues, “you chose the story last time. i think today someone else should pick.”

horace goes bright red and shifts as well. even his ears flush. “right, then.” he gives a murmur and makes a gesture of offering toward her. “you wanna do it?”

“yes.” alyss perks up, straight as a woodboard, and smiles. “i’d like to hear something scary, mistress.”

horace is now indistinguishable from a well-grown tomato, and the remaining three snicker among themselves. by the time horace turns to them, will has sown his mouth shut and is examining his blanket with uncanny interest.

“but not too scary,” george tells mistress aggie with big eyes. to his side, jenny is nodding furiously.

“very well,” mistress aggie agrees, trying to hold back her own laughter. once she settles, her eyes have the sparkle again, and all five - even horace, whose skin is slowly shifting back to its normal colour - lean closer. “as most everybody knows, the scariest things aren’t ghost stories or ancient legends; it’s the things that are right here, right now. with you, with me. with us.”

she puts on a knowing grin, and:

“let me tell you about the rangers.”

_the man with childish freckles and an unkempt mess for hair is tied up behind them. he is not much of a man, the chief thinks to himself, with his wide young eyes and a breaking voice, and a body frozen in terror as they sling him over and restrain him. he had been stepping around on the path by the forest, a jolly expression on his face, defenseless, without even a single blade._

_it was almost as if someone had left them a gift. they snuck up on him - it was no feat as the man seemed too concerned with himself to listen to what was going on around him. then it was all child’s play - he threw a hand around his neck and dragged him down. all the while into the woods the pitiful captive was babbling something about his elderly father and having no money for his life, not that the chief listened for long. money was not much of a concern for him - fear was, though._

“nobody truly knows who they are,” mistress aggie says, keeping her voice low and mysterious. “they could be anyone, for all you know. even i could be a ranger, which i am not - but i just want to give you an idea of how good they are in pretending to be the little gray men. unnoticeable and undoubtable. they are whoever they want to be. however they want to be.”

“like actors,” jenny blurts out, delighted, and then goes bright red. “sorry.”

mistress aggie nods pleasantly to her, though. there was a travelling band of artists that passed redmont once, and mistress aggie made sure they had a free day to see an act - the kids didn’t stop talking about it for a month. they tried to stage a play themselves - that, however, failed hilariously, not that she’d ever bring it up again. 

“yes, you’re right. like actors, in a way. the difference is that you always know an actor is acting, no matter how convincing they might be. a ranger can lie to your face, and you’ll never know. they can fake anything they want, joy, sadness, anger…”

_fear. the chief likes seeing it. he had dragged the man up by the hair and looked into his face as he struggled against the ropes on his wrists helplessly. the man is red - the blood that had rushed to his face is just as red as the nest on his scalp, as red as his freckles not only on his cheeks but on his neck, his knuckles, dotted like flecks of blood._

_contented, the chief thinks to himself that he’ll see the real ones soon enough._

_“please,” the man cries out again. “i’ll do anything, just let me go!”_

_one of his men turns on his heel and unceremoniously kicks him in the stomach. the hit is dull in sound and piercing in sensation, the chief can tell. the red man chokes, falling forward, lips stained._

“they have been fighting for years and thinking for years. they think when they fight; most don’t. sometimes they lose on purpose, even. let themselves get hurt.”

horace snorts. “people don’t lose on purpose. or get hurt on purpose. that’s what they tell others as an excuse.”

“no, they don’t,” will says, frowning. “there are tricky fighters.”

“there are cowards,” horace insists.

“i wouldn’t say allowing themselves to get hurt to reach a goal is a cowardly thing to do,” alyss says calmly, taking will’s side again. “i think it’s impressive, actually.”

horace goes red again, and mistress aggie decides to keep on with her caution tale before they get into the second brawl of the day.

“it is a skill difficult to hone, that’s for sure,” she agrees. “it’s very easy to push yourself too hard, to the point you’re incapacitated or dead. and all the while you have to trick your opponent, make them believe you’re completely at their mercy.”

_“you’re not leaving,” the chief informs him, and he draws in a shuddering breath of horror. “now, or ever.”_

_“why?” he gives a sob. “why are you doing this?”_

_it’s such a silly question the chief clasps a hand over his mouth, but the laugh breaks through anyway._

_“honestly, how stupid can some people be,” he asks his men under his breath, and a wave of chuckling rolls over them as well, emphasized by the man’s wailing._

“it is known that rangers are not the most powerful-looking folk.” mistress aggie stands up and puts a hand halfway down her throat. “the few ones i’ve seen barely reached this - don’t believe i’ve noticed one taller than me.”

“not even taller than you, mistress aggie?” will asks, half-whispering.

“not even taller than me, dear, as i said.” she smiles at will, then turns to horace. “but assuming that height means everything is a dangerous thought, little ones. the less imposing they seem, the easier it is for them to convince you of their harmlessness. it aids them in the act.”

_he turns around and walks to crouch in front of the red man, who avoids his eye, his own now overflowing with tears._

_“what kind of man are you?” the chief smiles at him. “have some dignity.”_

_“are you going to kill me?” the man whispers tearfully, and the chief runs a hand through the red hair. grips it hard and drags it up along with the man, who gasps for air, almost hysterical._

_they are in the middle of nowhere. he will have his fear._

“and if you overestimate yourself, you will meet a sad end,” mistress aggie warns. “you may be confident in your abilities, but you should know when to step back. though, if you’re facing off against a ranger, i reckon it would’ve been better had you not stepped forth anyway.”

“is there absolutely no way to beat them?” alyss asks, less frightened and more curious, but with a twinkle of uncertainty in her eye.

“yeah, couldn’t a good knight take one on?” jenny seconds her, and mistress aggie opens her mouth. closes it. opens it again.

“not unless they’re prepared to lay down their life for a single attempt,” she says grimly, and the two deflate. “even if your envisioned knight manages to knock down a ranger, the ranger is going to do everything in their power to at least take them along.”

“how long do they train for?” will wonders.

“i don’t know that,” mistress aggie replies with a shrug. “but we should not speculate about these things. dangerous and menacing as they are, they’re on our side up to a certain point - we shouldn’t anger them by making guesses about how tough it would be to take them down.”

“there are no rangers here,” horace mutters, and mistress aggie clicks her tongue.

“weren’t you listening, boy?” she asks, voice low. “they can be wherever they want to be.”

_“if you ask nicely enough, maybe i’ll take pity,” he suggests with a toothy grin._

_the red man looks up at him, right at him, maybe for the first time intentionally._

_the leaves sing as wind ruffles them up behind them. almost a symphony. what a pretty day for a kill, the chief thinks._

_then, to his surprise and annoyance, the man stirs and leans back. relaxes, almost._

“but,” mistress aggie says almost dreamily, looking into the distance. “there’s one thing i haven’t mentioned yet. all this talk of weaponry and skill, and i haven’t touched upon their stealth.”

“what’s that got to with–” horace goes quiet again when mistress aggie deflates him with a sharper look.

“rangers are not knights, darling boy,” she tells him patiently. “their main purpose is to know things - not to fight. secrets, rumours, lies. all fall on their shoulders. how would you suppose they get around people that would try to keep them from this knowledge?”

“fight them?” will responds now, and horace gives a short nod, hesitant to agree with him.

“go past them,” she reveals, smiling thinly. “hide in plain sight. in the trees behind them, the grass under them, the sky above them. disappear, and reappear only when the time calls for it.”

_the chief takes the knife and points it right at the man’s adam’s apple; brushes the blade against it lightly, and a trickle of blood runs down his throat as the chief stares right through him. he expects a cry._

_there is none._

_there is, however a whistle in the air - and a sharp thwack. then, a thump of someone hitting the forest floor._

“there is, however, a time when they must go out of hiding, and, of course,” she continues, “you’ve all heard of their aim, haven’t you?”

in sync, alyss and george begin nodding enthusiastically while the other three exchange glances of confusion.

“well,” mistress aggie turns to alyss and george. “maybe you two would like to tell your friends about it?”

alyss opens her mouth, then looks at george and passes the torch with her eyes, nodding in encouragement.

george swallows. “they, um,” he stammers, and, in a single breath: “they never miss.” he lights up, smiling sheepishly at alyss, who returns the grin and adds:

“there is a saying.” she closes her eyes, hums for a moment, trying to remember. “ah! ‘a ranger carries the lives of two dozen people in their quiver’.”

“precisely. well done, you two,” mistress aggie tells them, and turns to the others. “they’re absolutely right. a ranger never misses, and if a bow is pointed at you, you might as well sit down so you don’t break your nose falling and the burial shall be prettier.”

the joke gets a giggle out of will, horace and alyss - george and jenny look horrified.

“i’m joking, of course,” she reassures them. “this is a scary story, after all. if you don’t harm a ranger, they shouldn’t harm you - but you should keep it in mind. there is no escape from an arrow of the woods.”

_to his utmost disbelief, the red man’s eyes change in front of him. he never believed in masks that ran so deep - he was wrong. what was once watery hazel is now hard and chilly, and instead of him staring through them, the chief finds that they are staring through him instead._

_“finally,” the red man says, and his voice is just as cold as his eyes. not the same voice that cried them a river moments ago. to the chief’s terror, his lips slowly stretch into a red smile. the blood is dark and staining on his teeth.“i was getting bored.”_

_as the chief jumps up, one of his men is thrown on the grass with a knife between his eyes, and another is already down with a black arrow sticking right out of his chest. they are not alone._

_he grips the knife harder._

_a man in a mottled cloak that fades in the green of the forest cuts through another one of his men with offensive lack of effort, and they lock eyes. the man’s are dark. the chief imagines his to be the same, but the new adversary only lets out a dismissive snort in his direction before leaping for another man to finish off._

_then, in one swift move, like a gust of wind, the knife is wrestled out of his hand from behind and two tied arms are on him, and one slings over his shoulders to keep him in a hold. he grabs onto it, but the knife is gone._

“it isn’t always useful to have a big bow slung over your shoulder, though. that’s why they carry concealed weapons, which helps them feign innocence, but sometimes what they have isn’t enough. i’ve said that they think while they fight, correct?”

“and that most don’t,” horace adds, a little offended. mistress aggie stifles a chuckle.

“it’s difficult to do two things at once, that’s no surprise,” she comforts him and keeps on, “but that’s not what i’m telling you right now. rangers are innovators, rangers are sly and clever and rangers are careful not to be caught defenseless - and they seldom are.”

“what if they do get caught?” jenny asks, looking genuinely concerned for the hypothetical ranger.

“as i said, they are creative.” she brushes a hand against jenny’s head, smoothing out her hair. “to them, anything can be a weapon. if they think they can use something against you, they will. if they think they can use you against yourself, they will. they’ll improvise their way out of anything, that’s how they’re different from everyone else. full of surprises, in a way, and not always the good kind.”

_the knife is in the red man’s hand. with a short swing, he cuts his own bonds._

_he stands pressed up against the chief, and he is not the same man. when they took him, he struggled to escape a single one of them. he was not as strong. not as silent._

_he was playing bait._

_and, as the cloaked figure in front of him drops on the chief’s first advisor and crushes his skull, he realizes he was the one being taken captive on the road._

_the rangers. of course it’s the rangers._

_he did not think the rangers would allow him to humiliate one of them. he did not think the rangers went to these lengths. he did not think a man who played a wailing village boy could be a ranger - and, of course, he was. he did not think the rangers were this devoted._

_he did not think._

“do not expect them to do anything,” mistress aggie tells the children with a firm look. “they are not predictable. their actions cannot be guessed. you cannot get lucky with a ranger who’s out for you, but you can avoid getting on their bad side, which i strongly suggest. do not wrong man, woman or otherwise; do not pave a way for vengeance. do not pretend to be better, or worse than you are. a ranger is always present, but a ranger you cannot see is the most present of all.”

“so, if we see them, they’re not dangerous?” george questions.

“i didn’t say that.” mistress aggie shakes her head. “you’ll see them at a point. that doesn’t always mean they hold no malice toward you. i’m telling you; keep your guard up, be careful, and don’t get cocky. they will use your misconception against you." 

_now, the red man likely also carries a silver leaf. he tugs him closer to the blade._

_"tell me, anything i should improve?” the whispering against his ear sends a shiver down his spine. he hasn’t been terrified for long, but the red man’s hand around his neck reminds him of his own - and the fear paralyzes him. “questions unconvincing? cries too quiet? or too loud, maybe?”_

_he says nothing, stunned, mouth open. his last comrade drops before him._

_“come on.” a smile is edged into the red man’s voice. “it’s not like i can ask anyone else.”_

“merely keep in mind this,” she says, raising a single finger up as if to teach them lesson. she looks each and every one of them in the eyes, to make sure they understand. to make sure their hands are trembling just a tiny bit - that they’re aware. “they get anywhere they want. they do anything they want. a ranger is not to be angered. a ranger is not to be joked with. a ranger is not a joke, do you darlings understand this?”

“yes, mistress,” they confirm in unison, all differently; horace with a certainty, a confidence, alyss with a serious look on her face, jenny from behind the pillow she’s hugging and george in a small voice. she looks at will last, and his eyes are wide. there is, however, the tiniest smile on his face.

“they are dangerous,” she presses once more, looking straight into the bright brown eyes. “there’s fifty of them scattered, they move however they want. they’re dangerous and they know it. some even enjoy it.”

_“why,” the chief breathes, and there’s a pause. “why would you–…”_

_what he now knows to be a ranger behind him stifles laughter._

_“honestly,” he mutters to the other ranger that stands in front of them now, bloody and eerily silent. “how stupid can some people be?”_

_as the knife draws across the chief’s neck, quick, almost gentle, he knows it to be the end for all of them._

“does our fief have one?” will asks, too young, forgetful of the gray-clad figure that roams the streets in the corner of his eye, there without fail, there but never seen.

“yes,” mistress aggie replies, standing up. she kisses each of them on the forehead before snuffing out the candles, and, in the dark, reminds them once more: “always.”

_“halt,” the red man says as they stand shoulder to shoulder, looking over the mess they’d made on the forest floor. splattered blood and broken bone. “i was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.”_

_“i have never failed you,” the other man says, his voice as quiet as the whistle of the wind in the leaves._

_“no, you have not,” his companion agrees, and raises his had to his shoulder. the touch is feather-light, and approving. “and you never will.”_


	8. indifference and perseverance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ferris' attempt to drown halt succeeds, but halt won't let a minor inconvenience like death stop him.

halt rears his head from the water, and a hard strike to the back of his scalp forces him back down immediately. he gasps for air, but instead a stream of freezing lakewater forces its way through his teeth and down his throat, and soon enough his lungs are filling and all attempts to breathe are forgotten. instead, he claws at his throat, trying desperately to get it out, get it out - and he never realizes he is sinking, deeper, deeper, where the clutches of darkness are merciless and silence is forever.

ferris waits atop the boat and watches the bubbles, paddle - his weapon - in hand. the tip of it is bloodied, so he dips it into the lake and shakes it gently to wash it off. the crimson spreads for one moment, and is gone the next.

by the time he looks up, the bubbles are no longer rising. he waits a bit more, and there he has it - a tunic, and black hair, and a sleek braid across the split skull. white hands digging into his own skin. all floating just below the surface. if halt had risen back up on his back, ferris would’ve seen the bleeding lines his nails left on his throat, and whatever was frozen on his face - hurt, or betrayal. or plain terror.

ferris pokes his dead brother with the paddle, just to double check. whacks him a few times. figures dead thrice is murder enough, and rows back home to his anxious sister to tell her of halt’s sudden amnesia that made him forget how to swim when he oh-so-unfortunately got knocked into the water by a stronger gust of wind. tragic.

any remorse he might’ve felt before is gone long-before their fatal trip. ferris will never again truly know what it means to trust or to forgive, really. well, it’s not like it’s not his own fault. it is. ferris might’ve been lucky this once - but many will tell you that, in every other occasion, the next heir of clonmel is an absolute bloody moron. 

and yes, halt really dies that day. the paling body of a seventeen-year-old boy shall be devoured by fish and insects alike, if nothing is done about it. and, thanks to his brother’s efforts to slaughter him in the rather remote spot of the middle of goddamn nowhere in the very center of the lake, he’ll never be found.

well, at least not in that state, he’s not.

that, of course, doesn’t mean he won’t be searched for. a lone princess will spend days disobeying every order from her parents and the guards, the nagging of her living brother and common sense, and she will walk into the water and paddle around, and dive, and nearly grow a tail herself in her efforts.

soon enough, caitlyn o’carrick is probably the best swimmer in the entire history of her house. the constant cold and the deep water, however, bring a nasty disease to her lungs that claims her life at an unfairly young age, just after she becomes a mother - but let’s turn our eyes back toward that lake for now, where, despite all her efforts, a sister never found her brother. and she never truly knew if that was for the worse or for the better.

whichever way it is, halt was truly and completely dead. 

but, well, it’s not like he was going to let that stop him. 

a silly thing like death? don't be ridiculous. after he’s endured his mother’s constant guilt-tripping, his father’s harsh lectures, caitlyn’s dancing practices and ferris finding a way to blame him for literally anything under the sun? thank you, halt thinks he can manage.

so he stands up, and, as any good freshly-dead prince, reminisces about all his life choices that brought him to this moment. really, everything began with him being born those damned seven minutes early, but hey, who’s counting now? he’s dead a good seven decades before ferris will be, anyway. if someone doesn’t nail him down with a lucky shot when he annoys the hibernian people enough, of course. 

_ the bastard _ , halt says out loud, and realizes he’s making no sound. well, the immediate perks of being a ghost, he thinks, and then yells it out -  _ ferris, you’re a bastard. you’re a goddamn moron with manure for brains - and looks like your head’s screwed on the other way, too! congratulations on throwing a mountain of responsibilities you didn’t consider when dreaming about being the heir on your shoulders, you absolute jester, you total piece of-- _

yes, that’s quite enough, he reasons. he may be dead, but a prince’s manners don’t evaporate the second he bites the dust!

or, well, the water.

soon thereafter, it occurs to halt that stepping around on his own corpse in the middle of a lake might arouse suspicion were anybody to see him - someone like  _ ferris _ , god forbid, he’s had enough of that face for years. once halt realizes they have the same face, his mood goes even more sour - if it can be that. after becoming the unwilling end of a fratricide, naturally, halt feels a bit miffed.

one way or another, he makes his way to the shore and gazes upon the castle of clonmel. the towers are tall and thick and they look much more like a fortress than a castle. much more of a prison than a home.

halt smiles, his ghostly form as pale and foreign as the grin spreading across his face, and then realizes what’s washing over him now - and that's the overwhelming, all-endorsing sense of freedom.

yes, he’s free now, he thinks. he can go anywhere and do anything.

before that, though, there’s only one more thing tying him to the castle - the only thing that ever tied him, to be honest. and that would be his sister.

he ascends to her room and wraps her blanket tighter around her, the guarding lady-in-waiting noticing little or nothing at all. a tad bit annoyed, halt realizes nobody can see him. well, he figures, he’ll fix that later. for now, he leans down and places a gentle kiss on his sister’s head with a blessing and a plea not to search for him, and pretends to believe she’ll listen.

she hears it. of course she does. she thinks she’s dreaming still, but she hears him, she feels his lips press against her forehead. even though he doesn’t exist, her love for him never wavers enough to stop either of them.

it’s a problem of the good o’carricks. they’re too stubborn for their own good.

after halt finally leaves (via the rather unconventional path of… he just flings himself out the window highest up because he always wanted to know what it feels like), he decides he should go and find his body again.

he waits for morning, and sets out to the lake. it’s easier when you can’t drown.  _ drowning twice _ , halt thinks,  _ how’d that feel? _ he tries to breathe in water, tear his lungs again, but it just doesn’t work out. he does get uncomfortable, though. it almost hurts.

then he finds his body.

“ew,” halt says out loud into the water, as the moment he did see the corpse, he reinhabited it. this time, a few bubbles rise to the surface. he tries to breathe in again.

“ow,” he says now, voiceless. it does hurt, he just… doesn’t think it’ll do much for him.

he swims back to the shore, a little regretful he hadn’t just shoved his body back there as his ghost self, seeing as paddling through rough waters is far more taxing than it would’ve been to blow hard enough to carry himself there on a wave, but, well, no harm, no foul. and it helps him get back into how all these funky bodily functions work on top of that.

after dawn, he sets out into the markets. they’re vibrant, they’re beautiful and they’re absolutely wild. halt’s pretty sure someone tries to mug him, but that must be because of his expensive robes; besides, he doesn’t much care for the criminal even after he finds a knife lodged somewhere between his ribs; he’s a certain form of dead now, so it matters little.

he pulls it out, and that… stings. a lot.

_ huh _ , he thinks.  _ ow. _

then he moves on.

he spends what money he has for decent, more travel-fit clothes and gives his previous ones away to a local seamstress, who is genuinely appalled to have been handed a pile of royal clothing. she has the sense not to ask where he got it.

his hair is still braided, and it’ll take him a few months to finally get rid of that piece of himself - and, at that point, he’ll already be with pritchard.

it’s not so much like either one of them finds the other - rather, they find each other, and it takes halt approximately zero seconds to determine that this man is probably a better person than his, say, father or brother on their good days had ever been combined. besides, pritchard smiles and offers halt coffee the first time they meet, and halt is won over immediately. coffee, he finds, is one of the few edible things he can still consume and recall the taste on his tongue. most others are bland.

pritchard says he’s a ranger from araluen, but that doesn’t come until later. while pritchard is undoubtedly a kind man, and rather open at that, halt senses his unwavering will and his loyalty to - wherever he came from. he might be friendly, but he’s not friendly enough to be taken advantage of. to tell the truth, halt does see people try and take advantage of his outgoing demeanor - and he wouldn’t exactly want to be any of them.

now, after they’d already been travelling for a few weeks, halt is told the man he’s journeying with is a ranger. halt oohs and listens close as pritchard tells him of the land back home, and the corps he was a part of, and a vile lord currently ruling with an iron fist. 

halt scoffs at the whole lord ordeal. he’s known a few tyrants in his life, even in his young age. he’s not opposed to helping. besides, pritchard is nice. he’s… very nice.

it really doesn’t take that much longer for halt to realize he’s become somewhat apprenticed to the man, and that neither party really minds this. it takes a little longer for him to recognize that pritchard’s slowly making his way into his heart - and taking the place of the father halt always wished he’d had.

pritchard is clever and cunning, but he’s also warm and understanding, and while his training is harsh, hey, halt is dead - he’s pretty sure that whatever his life, or whatever he should call it, is going to throw at him, hardly matters. he’s had worse. he truly didn’t expect his life to go this way already, being trained to become a spy for a foreign country he’d only ever seen through the gaps of the carriage.

the worst out of the less bad happen to be not the sleepless nights, or the push-ups, or the target practice. the worst are the nights when he actually sleeps; he doesn’t  _ have _ to, per se, but it feels good. when he doesn’t dream up the most dreadful nonsense.

pritchard holds him by the shoulders, peering through halt’s eyes into his very damn soul, and questions if he’s alright. halt didn’t know if dead people could sweat before - well, there’s his answer. he feels so cold, and he wraps his arms around himself, and falls to pritchard, and pritchard is warm. kindness radiates from him, even if he’s rarely open about it.

“i drowned,” halt tells him. “i drowned. it was bloody terrifying.”

“it’s over now,” pritchard replies, and halt knows it’s true. he knows pritchard doesn’t take what he says the way halt intends it. he thinks halt had a nightmare, which, well, yes, he did - but he doesn’t know halt isn’t telling him about the nightmare. halt tells him about what happened to him. pritchard never catches on - and maybe that’s a good thing. 

soon enough, halt rides out - and meets crowley.

now, crowley’s a curious soul, and an idiot, and, oh no, halt likes him too. he wasn’t aware that the world wasn’t composed of petty thieves and murderous nobles and plotting asshats alone, and now he has to learn the opposite. crowley is the embodiment of most things the world is good for; he's compassionate to a fault, he makes bad jokes, he can whistle and he never takes halt’s half-assed insults seriously.

when crowley waves his hand in front of a zoned-out halt’s face as they’re travelling once, he asks if he’s still there with him. halt answers, in no uncertain terms, that no, he drowned in a lake on the other side of the sea when he was seventeen.

“fine, fine,” crowley laughs. “got it, yeah. let’s move.”

that’s how the story goes. halt finds out that he still can laugh and get mad, and laugh while he’s mad, and that he can cry and completely ruin his life with a few misplaced words, and he can smile, and yes, at a point, halt, pauline dulacy  _ does  _ want you to hold her hand. 

his body ages - he’s thankful for it. god forbid he remained a scrawny seventeen-year-old forever. at least he can grow a beard now. somewhat, anyway. crowley never stops cracking jokes about it, and halt considers just breaking his nose once.  _ no _ , he immediately stops himself. _ that poor lad’s got it tough with his hawk-beak as it is. _

the war comes and passes, and halt realizes the passage of time doesn’t affect him as much as it does others.

he can tell what does affect him, though - that’d be the last days of the war.

he’s holding a dying soldier in his arms as he’s given a mission that’ll become his life soon enough: to find a woman and her child, and to watch over them. the soldier dies, and halt patiently waits for his ghost. he fully intends to chew him out for, well, actually dying, because now halt has feelings and does  _ not _ enjoy feeling like this much of a piece of shit. the ghost probably decides to bypass the entire ordeal and leaves halt alone in the middle of a battlefield and the crushing weight of responsibility on his shoulders. for a while halt does, indeed, feel like a piece of shit. he reasons that, in the kind of situation he’s been put in, anyone would.

he is not, however, a person to mope for long, so he goes out and immediately fails the first part of his promise - the woman dies, and leaves her child with halt, who is genuinely contemplating the best way to leave his body somewhere inconspicuous and go on a ghostly vacation forever. 

but the child cries, and the tiny hand grabs halt's finger, and oh, who the hell does halt think he is?

_ will, _ he repeats in his head.  _ good name. honest name.  _

he leaves the child in a ward, and watches him grow. he’s supposedly accomplished what he needed to, and it’s out of his hands now, but he still watches. cares for him, somehow. doesn’t let the poor bugger get picked on too hard. 

in the years after that, halt’s name becomes synonymous with that of an unstoppable force. easy to be that when you’re dead, halt muses to himself from time to time, and it’s true. legends never die, after all. unless the legend is dead already. it’s… confusing, to say the least.

either way, it still takes work to maintain a ranger’s position. sure, it’s easier to be daring when you’re dead, but it takes skill to pull off the types of stunts halt wants to pull off. twigs and pebbles don’t move out of a ghost’s way, and even he steps on crunchier leaves or breaks branches he’s sitting on. it happens when you have a body, and it’s not exactly the best option, ever, to leave it behind. 

halt still does it a couple of times. he gets stabbed while he’s away a couple of times. after this, he stops doing it. being stabbed is very unpleasant.

but he’s still nothing if not a competent learner, so he trains, and he studies, and he grows even more silent and deadly, and cold, and soon planning and strategy has leaked into his blood itself. he sits in crowley’s council and every good ranger knows halt is reliable and clever, and where there is a problem, he can solve it. he becomes kind of a… symbol, in a way. of rangerhood. or something. crowley loves talking about it, and halt hates it. but what can he do, really. 

halt is a good ranger as is, that's true, and that's all there is to it. or, at least, that's what he tells people. after all, nobody notices when an arrow passes him close enough to graze and he stands up with barely a scratch - nobody pays attention if a ranger is too quiet, his step too soundless. all those things befit a ranger.

halt figures rangers are just living ghosts, and he feels like he's home.

somewhere down the line, he discovers some pastries that also have a sort of pleasant taste to him. he resorts to ‘borrowing’ a few from master chubb every once in a while. he brings some to pauline occasionally; she’s well-aware where he gets them, but even the head of the diplomacy branch has a sweet-tooth. halt continues his petty thievery unopposed.

one day, however, as he's picking a few cupcakes from a tray - secretly, perhaps - he finally gets a closer look to his will. well, not ‘his’ will, per se. the will he brought to the ward. that will.

and, soon afterward, too soon than he’d like to admit, he’s taken another apprentice.

gilan had nearly burnt down his house on multiple occasions, and halt is glad will is tamer. more… willing to do things, in a way. less defiant and more appreciative, and if halt had to place himself as an apprentice between the two of them, he would’ve stood in the middle - but a few steps closer to will, he’d imagine.

the boy shows potential and demonstrates obedience, and natural skill. some have to be honed quite a bit, others are instinctual - either way, soon enough halt’s new apprentice is up and about as a bronze-leaf, and, to be honest, halt is pretty damn proud.

will saves him from a kalkara - well, from being horrifically maimed and then having to explain to the baron how he’s still ‘alive’ with no face to speak of. halt is very thankful. 

later on, he makes a trip to skandia, because, while he’s still busy being grateful, will manages to get himself kidnapped, and halt swears not to deal with another ghost. will accidentally gains a last name, saves a princess (or the princess saves him, it's really unclear) and almost -  _ almost _ \- leaves redmont.

but he refuses a generous offer and he stays. and suddenly halt realizes how strange even the concept of will’s loss was; he was too mad about the whole slavery thing to even think about it, but he felt… empty, without will. like he’d lost a vital part of himself. and when will almost knocked him to the ground with his embrace, sobbing and muttering, he felt like, for a moment, he’d returned from a hunt with ferris - and caitlyn was waiting for them, worrying herself into a frenzy.

halt thinks of the loss of will like the loss of his own child, it occurs to him a few years down the line in a scorching desert, when he finds out he might as well have signed his own apprentice’s death warrant. and the joy, the relief when he turns up alive and well - it’s the same way he felt when gilan made a couple too many close calls when he was younger. it is…. strange. 

but, he ultimately decides, not unwelcome.

in a few more years time, will has a silver leaf, and they head out for a cult in his homeland. halt doesn’t know how he feels about the fact that pretty much the entire circle of people important to him now know the fact that he’s ex-royalty, but he hopes it doesn’t impact his life much. it shouldn’t. crowley got bored of the ‘your majesty’ jokes after the third day, and gilan and will stopped bowing dramatically to him somewhere in the second week. only pauline seemed genuinely upset with him, but even she admitted it was only because “i dragged so many unwilling representatives into so many balls, i pulled myself through so much nonsense while teaching them proper manners, and the entire time you knew court dancing?”

he doesn’t really answer that. sheepish, halt just lets her live it down.

in hibernia, ferris accuses him of being a ghost, and halt has to fight laughter harder than he’s ever had to before. 

“oh, brother,” he says, and his voice is almost the same as it was all those decades ago. “if only you knew.”

ferris knows soon enough. 

holding his dead brother’s body, halt isn’t sure what to think. on one hand, this is quite a satisfying conclusion to his story - now all the o’carrick siblings are dead, and the entire house is done for, save for sean, his unexpectedly existing and unexpectedly decent nephew. on the other hand, ferris was his brother still.

halt lets him go and leaves him there as he stands up, decisively brushing himself off. oh, no. he’s found far better brothers in the corps than this murderer could’ve ever been.

they pursue the cult further.

it’s later on that path that halt remembers he can still feel pain. a poisoned crossbow bolt nails him right to the ground, and will calls for him in an increasingly desperate voice as halt remembers that he needs to breathe to look like a person, and that the piercing pain in his stomach won’t actually kill him. again, at least.

the crossbow would’ve hit him in the arm if he just hadn’t jolted back.

halt curses under his breath, but still manages to convince will he’s mostly fine. it only grazed his side, he claims, although he can already feel blood pooling, pouring.

oh, it’s not going to be a pretty few nights.

and indeed, it is not. in the beginning when it gets bad enough, halt begs horace and will to leave him, orders them, pleads with them because he knows, he  _ knows  _ he’ll be fine, even if immobile. they refuse, and they refuse, and they refuse. then, it all gets worse, and halt fears that he might actually drift away if this goes on; drift away and die, again, and never see will or gilan or horace or crowley or pauline again. he realizes how many people he, willingly or hesitantly, calls his loved ones, how much he cares.

he grabs will’s hand and tells him not to worry, and he lets himself float inbetween worlds. his seventeen-year-old self was given a second chance; would he be given another now?

thankfully, he doesn’t need to answer that question. will, clever will, he brings malcolm. and although malcolm basically tells will and horace to better start mourning now and get it over with, the healing salve he mixes up with the help of their new (and rather unwilling) genovesan friend immediately makes halt come back to his senses. he can’t die again, and he sure as hell won’t leave his boys in this mess alone.

soon enough, tennyson is dead, and they return.

halt finds a new appreciation for life in himself. or, well, whatever he calls it, anyway.

they sit in their cabin once they all find the time, him, will and gilan. halt looks onto them as he would onto his own children, and it’s the first time he’s sure they know that as well. because while it’d certainly be difficult for a ghost to conceive children, that doesn’t mean he can’t have any through other means.

halt’s eyes are warm in the dying sunlight.

“malcolm told us the poison was unsurvivable if the shot hit where you were hit,” will says after his second cup. “it made its way into your blood faster than your body could fight it. the mixture he gave you was only supposed to put you at ease.”

“yeah. a last mercy, if you will,” gilan added, eyeing halt over his coffee. “so, after will told me... we were thinking… how the hell’d you do it? how’d you survive that bolt?”

halt pretends to think for a while. “i’m a ghost,” he says afterward. “i’m already dead, so those things don’t really faze me anymore.”

“oh ha-ha,” gilan rolls his eyes. “seriously, halt.”

“no, really,” will laughs. “i know that long-running ghost joke you have, but sometimes it almost does feel like that, you know.”

halt shrugs and turns to watch the crimson sun outside, drinking his coffee. gilan and will follow his gaze, slow but widening smiles spreading across their faces. the sun sets, and the day is over, and a new one begins. where there is end, there is continuation.

and where halt goes, a ghost always follows. so all things considered, he figures, that can’t be so bad.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as i've already mentioned literally everywhere, this is a product of two hours. editing doesnt count but i wrote this in two hours and yall are gonna be SUBJECTED to it


	9. conversation starters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when going to hibernia, one should expect to meet hibernians. crowley still manages to be surprised, faced with a dark-eyed boy who seems to give just as much as he gets.

"the shack is abandoned," pritchard insists mere hours prior. the shack is abandoned indeed, at least when crowley first sees it. now, however, pritchard is out scouting, having left crowley to set up camp in the so-called abandoned shack, and crowley comes back to find their makeshift home for a few weeks to-be… not so abandoned at all.

a trip to hibernia is long and extremely taxing, especially in the weather they're stuck in - constant rain, constant cold. crowley has gone through three stages of a runny nose in five days and is pretty sure that if it gets any redder, it'll fall off.

"you know," he says to pritchard, right before the latter leaves, "i thought hibernia was a great country to visit. culture and all. now i think it's just a den for five new temperature-based diseases at every step."

"or, what you'd call in araluen," pritchard says before disappearing, gently nudging his horse around, "a decent spring."

it is dark and cold and generally unpleasant, and still pouring to boot, so, yes, perhaps he’s right. a decent araluenian spring. the rain seems to be so chilly crowley has no idea how it isn’t turning to ice mid-air. _oh, no, nevermind,_ he scolds himself when a particularly sharper raindrop brushes against his cheek. _i called it. i called upon it. great._

so, he hurries to at least complete a tent until pritchard gets back, get some blessed dry-time, but, as mentioned, the place isn’t as lonely as it had been a few hours back.

before crowley can even dismount properly, he feels eyes on him, and he glances to the side to find a small figure pressed into nothing more than a pitiful pile of cloth in the corner. a really, really small figure. a child, almost. the way they’ve drawn their knees up to their chest betrays it, but the dark, nearly glowing eyes prevent crowley from approaching with no caution. the eyes aren’t friendly, and the glint in them allowing crowley to even see them in the first place is as cold as the rain.

the person is huddled into a small ball underneath what’s left of the roof - only a few shambles, really, but just sufficient enough to shield such a small silhouette.

but it’s a child, and crowley is a third-year ranger apprentice.

he jumps off cropper and steps closer, tilting his head.

“oi,” he calls. “i can see you. what’re you doing all the way back there?”

the figure doesn’t reply, doesn’t even move. crowley hears, however, the quiet drag of steel against leather and throws up his arms. he doesn’t feel like getting into a fight with a blasted child that looks a few good years younger than him. they don’t seem to be in a great situation, either. crowley wonders momentarily whether they even know araluenian.

“hey, hey, no need for rash decisions,” he reassures quickly, pointing somewhere around the knife that is undoubtedly out of its sheath under the kid’s jacket. “put that down. look, i’m unarmed.” he spins in place. he’s not unarmed, naturally, his knives are in the scabbard, but his cloak partially covers them and the rain is rather heavy. the child seems to believe him, so they make no move, but crowley doesn’t hear the weapon being returned either. araluenian seems not to be a problem. “see, nothing to worry about.”

the person looks up at him. the bottom of the dark cowl drops a little, and he sees the tensed shape of a boy’s face that he immediately hides in the collar of the jacket again. some black hair falls onto his face, obscuring his eyes. he raises a hand to brush it off.

“well then,” crowley says, a little miffed about the lack of development with the situation, but the boy doesn’t really have much reason to trust some stranger that just crashed down from his horse and took his sweet sweet time putting away a hunting bow, with the quiver still strapped to his shoulder. “can i, um, come closer? i know it probably doesn’t feel like much from where you’re at, but it’s very wet and very cold here. i’d very much like to get under that roof you’ve taken all for yourself.”

there’s a little pause, and then a breath.

“wait,” a voice tells him. it’s muffled, but definitely audible. crowley watches as the figure moves to the side, giving him some space. there’s a good few meters between them when crowley makes his way over, freezing underneath his cover, but a little hesitant to sit down.

“i was worried,” he said, “that you didn’t speak araluenian. hah. i forget it’s not that common everywhere.”

“good,” the boy says. he seems to be in thought for a moment before adding, “tricky language.”

crowley hears the thick hibernian accent - how could he not? through it, he can barely understand what the boy’s saying, to be honest. but he’s got a rather pleasant voice. soft, almost.

“you’re not one to say that, hibernian.” crowley picks at his cloak absent-mindedly. “my, um--” he cuts himself off before saying ‘teacher’ and picks up at whatever would cause less questioning, “--father - we travel together, see - tried to get me to pick up some hibernian, and i think i might’ve cried.”

there’s a bit more silence from the boy. crowley doesn’t mind. it wasn’t that funny.

then, the voice comes again, this time even quieter, almost shy, “ _dia dhuit._ ”

“eh?” crowley glances to the side. the boy is eyeing him. his eyes seem the slightest bit lighter. “yeah, hello. that. i couldn’t even… yeah.”

 _“dia dhuit,”_ the boy repeats, insisting. crowley sighs, opens his mouth, closes it again, takes a deep breath, gathers his strength, and tries his damn hardest:

“ _dia… dhuit_.” he buries his face in his hands immediately. “gods, i’m so sorry.”

the boy snorts quietly. crowley tries (and fails) to resist a smile. the boy still seems adamant, finally turning to face him. the cowl drops again, and one of his hands rises, pointing right to his mouth.

" _dia_. just behind your teeth," he says clearly, then moves his finger back, so that it points at his cheek, then at his throat. " _dhuit_ , right here, in the back of your mouth, then back to the front."

crowley blinks. "what?"

the boy sighs, and moves his hand as he says it - " _dia dhuit_." 

"oh!" crowley exclaims, subconsciously mouthing it. he takes a breath, and tries himself. " _dia--_ "

" _di-a_ ," the boy cuts him off. "too short."

"you're no-nonsense, aren't you," crowley muttered gloomily. "well, alright. _dia dhuit_."

"that's," the boy says, turning away, "that's better."

"thank the gods." crowley chuckles, leaning forward, trying to catch his eye. "hey, now. we've proved we probably don't wanna kill each other, yeah?"

"don't be so certain," the boy tells him, looking back at him. there's a little hint of lightheartedness in his voice, though.

"i would definitely not sit through a language lesson which i'd then fail with someone i want to kill." crowley shrugs. the boy seems to think him within reason. "if anything, it'd only turn me more murderous. and i'm still tolerating you."

"tolerating me, yeah," he snorts. "you're under this roof with my permission."

"hardly a roof, is it?"

"perhaps," he agrees. "but if not you, then your horse could probably kill me in one kick. gods know why it’s looking at me like that."

 _yes_ , cropper agrees cheerfully, _i could trample him with ease._

"he would never hurt anyone," crowley says, with a little note of warning to cropper. _wily bastard_.

the boy, to his surprise, shrugs. "fine," he says, mouth barely moving, "let's make ourselves acquainted, in that case."

"i'm thomas," crowley lies on the spot with ease, smiling to reassure him and reaching out to take his hand. "an' you?"

a slightly quivering palm emerges from underneath the jacket the boy has wrapped around himself and grabs crowley's. the grip isn't hard at all, as if he's unwilling. as soon as crowley lets go, the hand falls back under the cover. "connor."

crowley is a third-year ranger apprentice; he sees the glimmer in the unusually dark eyes and he knows instantly.

"you're lying," he says, but softly. he's willing to let him get away with it.

the boy doesn't seem to need or want his allowances however, retorting without skipping a beat, "and so are you." 

_that's good_ , crowley thinks. maybe he shouldn't hold his rangerhood up against this boy. he noticed the eyes before. they're knowing, unintentionally, but knowing. but, at a glance, he doesn't seem like he's using that knowledge where it really matters, except now.

"sharp." crowley tilts his head, considering his options. "well, if we've got that covered… if you let me keep mine, i'll bite, too."

the hand surfaces again. pulls the jacket down a little, and while now crowley sees the lack of a smile, the boy isn’t scowling at him either. it’s a neat, unassuming expression. cautious, almost. crowley knows, because he’s seen it before.

the more time passes, the more he likes this kid, he finds, as unapproachable as he makes himself out to be.

the boy looks down, thinks for a moment, presses his lips together, and, “very well, then. thomas.”

“you don’t have to say it with such disdain, you know,” crowley tells him, and ‘connor’ glares for a moment. his eyes seem to be made for it. “no, really!”

“i’m not saying it with anything,” he argues. “i’m just… i’m just saying it.”

“well, however it is, glad to make an acquaintance,” crowley finally concludes their long-winded introduction. connor, seemingly grateful for it, only nods and falls into silence again, the jacket obscuring most of his face once more.

"why are you here?" connor asks, not particularly enthusiastic. crowley clicks his tongue - he's never been particularly careful, but caution becomes second nature under pritchard. under any good ranger, he thinks.

"my father's a traveller," he says, flashing a smile. "adventurer, i guess, of a sort."

"and you're not?" _damn it_. 

a crooked eyebrow, and crowley stutters, going a little red.

"see, i'm not exactly… qualified yet, i don't think." he sticks his nose down into his collar, a convincing act of mild shame. "he just, he knows so many things i don't, you know? it feels like i can't live up to that. like i'll never be good enough for it. i’ve no idea how to grow into someone like him. as wise and as reliable, i guess."

maybe it's because he didn't pull the second part of it out of thin air, but connor seems to believe him, somewhat.

“i understand,” he says, though unconvincing. "it's universal."

crowley laughs. "it's really not."

connor shrugs, shifting. "maybe not, then. i don't have much to compare it to."

"no? what, am i your first--" friend, he almost says, but bites his tongue before connor can catch it. "--first comparison opportunity?"

"even if not," the boy eyes him over the collar of the jacket, that bright glint in his eye still, "you're definitely the first who’s worthwhile."

crowley grins, but not without caution. "now just what's that supposed to mean?"

"well, i mean," connor starts, "you're a liar, a secret-keeper, and god knows what you can do with that knife under your belt. you'd gotten me convinced you were a wanderer, even. all things i, maybe, wish i was. but no, we are, in this case, opposites."

"you're half of what you described," crowley laughs, but then fully processes what connor told him. "sorry, i 'convinced' you i was a wanderer?"

"well, yes. because you're not one."

"oh, pray tell how i can't be one."

"you speak far too much for a wanderer." maybe it's a ruse, but crowley can definitely hear a trace of a smile somewhere in there. for some reason, it irks him. so much that he decides to just hand this one to connor.

"well, you speak araluenian far too well for a stableboy," he replies, mildly annoyed. connor chuckles. 

crowley is now moderately annoyed.

"i never said i was one," connor reminds him, turning more freely toward him.

crowley sees, then, his neck. it's paling and part of it is discolored, yellow - a scar stretches across it, long and ugly. it makes his neck look at little less straight than it is. crowley almost winces at the sight, but doesn't question the origins just yet.

"so who are you, then?" he asks, slowly.

nevertheless, connor senses the eyes on his neck and ducks back down into the jacket, hiding it. crowley would tell him it's fine, but what does he know.

"i don't know, thomas," he says, smiling wryly, "who are _you_?"

"right. point taken," crowley grumbles, and they fall into a silence less awkward than the last. 

as they stare off into nothing, within themselves, crowley tries to figure out the answer to the question himself. _the way they hold themselves is rarely a give-away_ , pritchard says - crowley can almost hear his voice in his head. _a working peasant woman can carry herself with the same dignity a lady of the royal court can._ crowley doesn't know what connor carries himself with, but he sits straight and gazes through most everything. _look for physical signs; if_ _their hands are calloused and dry, they may be being worked to the bone_. no, connor's hands are neat and gentle, except for the two cuts on his fingers crowley easily noticed as the boy clutched the jacket - the telltale sign of archery. _look at the way they speak - but be careful, for everything, save for appearance, can be learned._

connor is soft-spoken, with a mild lilt to his voice, rather slow and deliberate, and careful.

for the first time in a long while, crowley genuinely doesn't know what to make of somebody.

"you're thinking so loud i can almost make it out," connor jabs, suddenly, and crowley turns to him, feigning offense. "i'm trying not to freeze here, and you're using what warmth you have to shove needless speculations into the void."

crowley ignores most of that.

"it is rather cold, yeah," he agrees instead. he's honest - it's freezing indeed, and he wouldn't object to some warmth. connor shifts to the side, looking up at him expectantly.

"well," he says, sticking his stare deep into the horizon again. "come here. i don't mind."

"oh," crowley laughs a little soft laugh. "i was hoping you'd suggest. i'm not an intruding man, see!"

"you're hardly a man as it is," connor says, and crowley laughs a little louder than before.

"grow a couple inches before talking to me like that," he jabs. "stuff yourself under that ceiling bent trifold, i still would know you're going to no more than my chest."

“oi,” connor mutters. 

“pfft. sorry.” crowley touches his shoulder cautiously. “wrong topic?”

“topic’s fine,” he says, looking away. then, bluntly, “i’m annoyed.”

“oh,” crowley says, really unsure of how to continue. truly, when one doesn’t know the language perfectly, stating something is easier and makes things clearer, but it definitely puts the other speaker in a bit of a strange place. “again, sorry. why?”

“it isn't your fault,” the hibernian replies. “i was annoyed before you got here.”

crowley clicks his tongue, tilting his head. “were you here because of that?”

"yes." he doesn't seem to see any reason for hiding it, and crowley agrees, begrudgingly - he doesn't know anything about the boy to use any of it. he doesn’t even know his name, since they both agreed to take each other's aliases at face value.

“i can’t ask what it was that irked you, can i?” crowley knows without even looking that he’s got two frustrated eyes stuck to his side.

thoughtful silence still ensues, though, and connor seems to figure he really isn’t giving away state secrets here.

"do you have any siblings?" he asks. his voice is quieter than before, but crowley is closer now. he hears it no problem.

"why?"

"to compare experiences," he replies calmly. 

"what's so special about your siblings?" crowley asks, tilting his head. connor scoffs.

"i wouldn't know. that's why i'm asking. have you ever wanted to kill a sibling?"

a little pause. then, crowley bursts into laughter. 

"whoa, whoa!" he stutters. "i mean, yeah! hasn't everyone?"

"no." the hibernian is barely audible, now. the accent grows slightly thicker when he's making an effort not to be loud. "no, i don't mean that. sure, we've all wanted to slap a sibling across the face. but have you ever wanted to _kill_ them. put your hands on their necks and watch them choke to death. or crush them underneath a pile of rocks so nothing but a little puddle of blood would be left." he looks up at crowley, and there's something new in his face.

subconsciously, crowley moves the slightest bit away from the boy. "the hell," he mutters, half in surprise, half in horror. "no? never like that. what even..."

connor pauses to think, then leans back. "good," he says. "it isn't normal, then."

"of course not!" crowley snaps his head at connor, brows so low they might as well be obscuring his eyes. "that's an awful thing to even consider, much less say!"

connor nods, staring into space. "good," he murmurs absentmindedly. "good."

"why do you--" crowley pauses to take a breath, swallows, and continues, "why did you ask? sort of came out of nowhere, that."

there's silence for a while. connor is small and almost timid at his side, stilling completely, almost ceasing to breathe. crowley feels the cold pouring off of him; or maybe crowley is just that much warmer.

"i don't wish any harm upon my siblings, if that's what you want to know," connor tells him, and crowley hates to say he's relieved - and that, for some reason, he believes connor is being genuine.

"do they," he then continues, "do they wish harm upon _you_ , then?"

connor scoffs. it's feigned. this much is obvious. "no," he says, and crowley senses a sliver sincerity in his words, but it's overshadowed by what seems to be doubt. "no. of course not."

and this - it's in the rush and the quiet he says it with, and the obvious pause - it's a lie.

crowley shifts closer to connor. the warmth they share somewhat preserves them in the cold, and connor seems to be too lost in thought to keep his suspicions. not that there’s much to be suspicious of. crowley stares into the distance along with him.

"where'd the scar on your neck come from?" crowley questions, not even glancing at him. "if you don't mind me asking, that is."

distantly, connor rubs at his neck. the wound is a few years old, crowley concludes, but not any less nasty than it looked at first, no doubt. the only thing connor can hope for is that he grows and the scar shrinks - or fades.

"sparring didn't go to well, i guess."

"with your siblings?"

"my brother," connor mutters, and now crowley hears it. the subtly-masked distaste. the quiet disappointment that a person will do - or can do - nothing about.

crowley swallows. "i don't know you," he says, turning to him. connor's eyes are still fixed on the horizon. "but i think… i think you should be careful."

connor nods. "i wouldn't be here if i was reckless."

crowley doesn't ask what he means by that. he doesn't ask anymore, period. nor does he point out the scar on his neck.

they both face the sky. whatever faint light is coming down shines right on their faces, and short and stout shadows loom behind them.

the droplets fall like music. not gentle string, but not dulled drum either. somewhere inbetween. like the quiet chime of a bell.

"how did we go from sharing cover to fratricide?" crowley asks, at some point. connor shrugs.

“good for people that make quick talk,” he says quietly. “i don’t know how.”

"well, it’s just the way you did it. all it takes is a… good conversation starter, i suppose. a _dia dhuit,_ if you will." crowley smiles at connor, expecting more critique. "what's off now?"

he seems to think for a bit; the silence lingers.

"nothing's off," the hibernian mutters at last, staring off into the rain. "you said it perfectly."

\--

“i will lop your head off.” halt’s eyes are unwarmed even by the crimson of the setting sun. “and i will enjoy it.”

“as if you can reach that high,” crowley answers swiftly, and halt gives an exasperated sigh.

it all started because they were short on time - there was none to make an overnight stop, so they had to stay awake somehow. when crowley started whistling - not too loudly and completely unintentionally, just aiming to keep himself from falling off cropper in his exhaustion derived from more than two days with no rest - it apparently got on halt’s nerves. halt is irritable as it is, and the fact that he is just as tired as crowley puts crowley himself in a position most suitable for being whacked sideways across the head with a bow.

“you’re very funny, crowley,” halt says. “it’ll get you killed one day.”

"yes, well." crowley can't help the laughter. "i'd say i'm a hilarious man to death, indeed."

"hilarious, whatever helps you sleep at night," halt grumbles under his breath, urging abelard on. crowley still overhears a half-serious "you're barely a man as it is."

at first, he laughs again.

then, it's as if a stray lighting bolt strikes him, and he freezes for a moment. it sounds so - strange. he has to take a few seconds to think and blink.

then he chases.

"halt, wait!" 

abelard stops in his tracks and looks up to his rider, who in turn glances over his shoulder at crowley, who's hurrying to catch up on cropper.

finally, they even out, and crowley leans closer, a little pink at the ears.

"look, i know this is going to sound really strange, but," he says, and halt debates for a moment giving him the nickname of some red vegetable, but decides against it when he sees how flustered crowley looks. something must really be bothering him, he figures.

crowley clears his throat. "can i see your neck, please?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's back. back again.  
> me it's me  
> i love them your honor


End file.
